Fire Storm
by ElvendorkInfinity
Summary: Some things never change, even when everything around them does. Sequel to Black Ice. [John/Sherlock]
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: After multiple requests for a sequel, multiple failed attempts and a decision to give up, you can thank Martin Freeman's stint as host of Never Mind the Buzzcocks for my finally getting the inspiration for this (me and my friend spent the whole time laughing hysterically, then this came to me). It is completed (minor edits pending) and I hope to upload one chapter per week.**

**Regarding the name: I was struggling with it, but had decided on something along the lines of a 'storm' to fit in with the 'ice' last time...then I discovered the "Young Sherlock Holmes" books by Andrew Lane, the latest of which is called "Black Ice"! The next is apparently "Fire Storm" – I decided to take the hint. XP**

**Dedicated to PrincessNala and prettybirdy979, without whom this would have been impossible – thank you so much!**

There is a moment, when you have finished laughing, that the endorphins wear off and the humour is gone. Your mood sinks back, not to its normal level but below, a strange lull in which you cannot remember what you found amusing in the first place; a unique kind of sadness settles over you. Perhaps it is that you miss the laughter, perhaps in its absence your ordinary mood simply _seems_ low, or it could be the return to _thought_, because when you laugh, really laugh, reality floats away for a while and its return is almost always unwelcome.

And yet – John feels none of that now.

No. Now he feels _content_. There is no other word for this warmth and comfort, this pleasure at just _being_, just sitting, not thinking and worrying and working – just existing in a happy limbo between sleeping and waking where nothing much matters but the soft, warm cushions and the slow, deep sound of Sherlock's breathing beside him. Nothing exists beyond this bubble, or at least none of it is important.

It started with him shifting position; knelt in front of Sherlock, who was sat on the sofa some hours ago now, somehow having gone from fixing dressings to the detective's cheek to _kissing_ him, John's knees had very inconveniently decided to protest at the awkward position and he had begun to feel his leg muscles cramping painfully.

He tried to move into a more agreeable position carefully, subtly, without shifting his upper body very much and just rearranging his legs and feet beneath him – all without breaking the kiss, not wanting to give his brain a chance to catch up and think better of his actions.

He promptly got his ankles tangled in the attempt and toppled over backwards ridiculously, sending the first aid kit flying and laying sprawled on the floor for several long seconds while Sherlock stared and his face grew hot and red.

And then he laughed.

He saw the slight quirk of Sherlock's lips, that smirk, almost a smile, that made his eyes dance in a way that is exquisitely _Sherlock_, not completely open but not completely hidden either; a rare, split second glimpse into his mind, and John laughed. He laughed because he was happy. He laughed at the absurdity of the situation. He laughed to shake off his embarrassment at the fall, he laughed simply to feel the sheer joy of laughing itself. Then Sherlock joined in, his face breaking into a radiant grin only slightly hampered by a wince of pain, soon forgotten, and then they were both grinning and giggling and gasping between fits of breathless amusement at nothing at all, and everything in the world.

It seemed a long time before they stopped, neither knowing what had really made them start in the first place, but it might only have been a few minutes after all. However long it was, or wasn't, John found himself, still smiling though his cheeks ached and his lungs were tired from the effort, pulling himself to his feet only to collapse with a sigh onto the sofa beside Sherlock.

Several moments of easy silence passed before John reached for the TV remote as though it was the most natural thing in the world and settled himself into the welcoming cushions, not really paying attention to whatever programme he had turned on.

And soon he found himself that bit closer to Sherlock, without having any conscious memory of either of them moving. Not long after that, they were closer still, and Sherlock's eyelids were drooping with tiredness; John fought the urge to prod him awake, reasoning that at least there was a doctor on hand should anything happen.

But his own eyelids were heavy and felt like sandpaper, his muscles were weary from the chase through the streets and the fit of laughter seemed to have drained the last of his energy...

Now, he wakes in darkness; the television is still on, some American medical drama John remembers seeing at some point before, though the fact registers without a great deal of interest. He lets it play on because he doesn't want to move to reach for the remote, which has fallen to the floor.

At some point, his head has found its way onto Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock's arm is thrown carelessly over John's shoulder, fingers curled loosely where they hang in front of him. John's whole body is moved gently by the steady rise and fall of the sleeping detective's ribcage; one of his legs is sprawled across the sofa, the other is dangling to the floor, while Sherlock's are neatly stretched out and crossed at the ankles, right over left to avoid aggravating his injuries.

John looks down and realises, with a not too unpleasant start, that the fingers of Sherlock's other hand are entwined with his own. The sight makes him smile, and without actually deciding to do it, he is tightening his grip. Sherlock stirs but does not wake – if anything, John thinks Sherlock's hold on his hand has become stronger.

He feels sleep beckoning him once more and does nothing to stop it; he has no desire to move from this spot at any point in the foreseeable future. He allows his eyes to close and his head to drop back again to its resting place directly above Sherlock's heart, letting the soft beat sooth him like a lullaby until he falls sharply and startles himself back to sudden wakefulness – Sherlock, too, blinks and shifts groggily.

For a split second, everything is as if this arrangement were perfectly normal; the only thing which registers in John's sluggish mind is that it is a rare thing to see Sherlock with that same slow, early morning look which every other human being on the planet exhibits as a matter of course on opening their eyes for the first time.

Then it seems to hit him as if he is only just realising.

He is laid across Sherlock's chest.

He is practically wrapped in Sherlock's arms.

He is holding Sherlock's hand.

He tries to pull himself away, sit himself up – maybe if he manages to detangle himself from the detective's long limbs he will be able to think clearly and come up with an acceptable explanation for this...but Sherlock has not let go of him. He has stiffened, and stopped John from moving, muttering something like 'irrational'.

What is irrational John doesn't know, but he freezes – doesn't move away or relax, not sure which would be worse right now. Sherlock – _Sherlock pulls him back_.

'What's irrational?' Is all John can manage to make himself say, though his mouth seems to have difficulty forming the words and it comes out as little more than a croak. It's as though a strange mist has lifted, and now, seeing what he has done...he _wants_ to say he regrets it. He _wants_ to say that he has never thought about finding himself in this position, never wondered idly what it might be like. He _wants_ to say any number of things which refuse to occur to him right now because all reasonable thought flew out of the window as soon as he felt Sherlock's words rumbling through his chest, which he is still laid on – not entirely reluctantly.

'Moving,'

'Right...why is moving irrational?' He clears his throat, hoping it will encourage his voice to return to normal.

'This is comfortable,' Sherlock offers as explanation.

John almost laughs again. Almost – his eyes do crease at the corners and his lips do twitch slightly, but that's as far as his expression goes. Of course this is simple to Sherlock – he has decided not to bother himself with the social ramifications of kissing his best friend, but to accept its occurrence as natural, because what reason could there be not to? It entertains him, therefore Sherlock will do it, and damn the consequences. John wishes he could be so dismissive.

Sherlock does not have a girlfriend to worry about.

Oh, God. Sarah. What on Earth is he supposed to say?

_Is_ there anything to say?

Of course there is.

But...but if it didn't happen again – if he can put it down to Sherlock's head injury –

And what is his own excuse?

But this isn't _real_, it can't be _real_, it just – this is Sherlock, this is impossible...he knows it is impossible – it has to be.

'Stop torturing yourself John,' a pause, which hums loudly between them for two seconds that last an eternity, 'do you regret it?'

If John hadn't known better, he would say there was some doubt behind Sherlock's otherwise imperious tone. He replies before he has had a chance to process the question, let alone formulate an acceptable response.

'No,' he says – and means it. Sherlock smiles, just a little; John can't see it, but he feels the ever so slight relaxation of muscles beneath him.

'Neither do I,' something in the statement makes John feel...warm. It is stated as simple fact, in the same tone Sherlock might use to inform John of one of his most basic deductions or John might announce a shortage of milk, but all the same John finds he knows what it means and he...he sighs. Like a teenage girl, he berates himself, like a stupid, clumsy, ditzy teenage girl. Sherlock chuckles softly; John can feel the vibrations in the detective's chest where he lays, and makes another, gentler, attempt to sit up.

'I still need to clean your wounds,' he says, for all the world as though nothing has happened. Sherlock, grudgingly, allows the doctor to stand and watches curiously as he gathers the scattered remains of the first aid supplies from where they have fallen to the floor.

The whys and the hows of these strange new – or – well, _are_ they new? – feelings Sherlock is having can wait – currently it is enough to know that they exist, and acting on them is not boring, and so they are acceptable – no further examination is really needed. After all, he's married to his work, but John is rather a part of his work now isn't he?

He sits through John's treatment of his cuts in relative cooperation, making only a few snide comments and once – purely out of curiosity to see what reaction it will elicit – while John is placing a dressing on his leg, Sherlock leans down and kisses the top of the doctor's head. It is a nice feeling, and John's hair tickles his nose. Though he only receives a grunt in reply, he sees the change in John's expression as the colour rises on the doctor's face, and decides that this is definitely a worthwhile experiment after all.

* * *

><p>Once Sherlock's injuries are cleaned and dressed, John demands that he change his clothes, for which Sherlock throws him a reproachful look.<p>

'They're dirty, ripped, and probably still wet, Sherlock, go take them off,' he instructs firmly, pointing towards Sherlock's room.

He is sure – and it does not make him happy, it does not amuse him in the _slightest_, of course it doesn't – that as Sherlock lets the bedroom door swing shut behind him, he _winks_.

John shakes his head as he turns away, running his hand through his hair. He isn't certain what's happening here, but finds that so long as he doesn't think about it too much, it won't bother him. As with everything else with Sherlock, it seems best to just let things happen.

Of course, the rest of the world might have other ideas and Sarah chooses this moment to text him. He stands for a moment, hovering in indecision, before he closes it without replying.

What is he supposed to _say_?

'That depends,' says Sherlock; John jumps as his flatmate walks into the room, still buttoning his shirt up.

'I'm sorry – what?'

'Sarah – I'm assuming the text was from her – you don't talk to many people and if it were Mycroft or Lestrade you would have told me. If I was Harry you would probably either reply straight away or just ignore it, but you stood there, you couldn't decide – like you wanted to reply but couldn't think what to say. Given the current situation it seems a fairly plausible assumption that it's from Sarah. Was I right?' He asks coolly.

'Yes,' John replies shortly, 'but that's not what I was asking.'

'What were you asking then? Try to be more specific John; it will save an awful lot of time,' he sounds the same as ever, as though this is nothing to him, and John feels suddenly angry at this – at the fact that the detective can behave as though nothing has happened, nothing has changed, while John is stuck feeling so _confused_. It's not, he admits, like he has never thought about this – _wished_ for it, even, on worse days, in the past...but now that it's happened, and all the complications that have come with it...

'I meant, depends on what?' John clarifies carefully; Sherlock raises his eyebrows, and then looks at John with that disapproving frown he dons when the police have missed something he deems obvious at a crime scene.

'It depends on whether you intend it to happen again.'

John is disappointed by the indifference in Sherlock's voice, and this in itself is enough of an answer to him, but he won't say it. He won't.

'I have to tell her either way,' he argues,

'Why? If it never happens again it won't affect her, I don't see why she needs to know,'

'I'd be lying to her – it's not fair, it's...I just can't.'

'You wouldn't be lying, you would be omitting the truth, there is a difference. What's the problem? People do it all the time.' He sounds genuinely bemused by the issue – as far as he is concerned, it seems to John, there _is_ no issue.

Sherlock is, not for the first time, exceedingly glad of his acting abilities – glad that John cannot see that he is practically holding his breath waiting for a reply, and though he is loathed to admit it even to himself something like _fear_ is making his heart beat irritatingly quickly, as though determined to give him away. He feels a rush of anger towards Sarah, but stifles it quickly before it can show on his face. He is not _jealous_. Not in the slightest – he is merely impatient, and wishes John would just _answer_ already.

'Sherlock – you really don't have a clue do you? It's just...she has a right,' he tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice, he really does, but he hears it leaking in all the same.

'You haven't answered my question,'

'I just did,'

'Not that one.'

'I wasn't aware you had asked another one. What were you saying about saving time?' John has his hands on his hips now, but out-staring Sherlock is proving to be an impossible task and he knows – of course he knows – what Sherlock is referring to – but he is hoping to put off the moment when he has to form a reply.

'Touché,' Sherlock says, deliberately forcing himself to speak slowly so as not to give away his – not _nerves_, he does not get _nervous_, but...he cannot think of a word to adequately describe this feeling. It is new, and unwelcome. 'Do you intend it to happen again?'

'That's not exactly solely my choice is it?' John counters quickly,

'Do stop answering my questions with your own. What if I were to say it _was_ your decision?' Sherlock asks irritably,

'Hang on – are you – this is a valid question!' John snaps in response to Sherlock's raised eyebrows, 'are you saying you _want_ it to?'

Sherlock is silent for a long time and when he speaks, he addresses the floor, quietly, petulantly, as though it has been forced from him.

'Yes.'

Pause. Sherlock's heart hammers. He wonders if the expression on his face, despite his best efforts, mirrors that on John's, of guarded anticipation and barely suppressed hope.

'You – what – really?' John is shocked, not only by Sherlock's answer, but by the wave of relief it causes when he hears it...oh yes, he thinks ruefully, he is most definitely, completely, royally screwed. He swallows as he waits for Sherlock's reply. This can't be real. It's not – he's – it _can't_ be, after forcing himself never to think, never to look too closely at the little flutters in his stomach, never to inspect with too much scrutiny why he finds Sherlock's smile so alluring, or why he sometimes catches himself staring...he is almost shaking with feelings ignored, feeling suppressed, for far too long.

'Yes, John, yes, you know perfectly well what I said!' Sherlock hisses, suddenly loud as he turns and storms towards the kitchen to avoid looking at the doctor. 'I have to admit, it was not entirely dull, and you seemed to enjoy it, so –'

'You don't have to explain yourself,' John interrupts, barely stifling his laugh, which bubbles forth with a swell of lightheaded disbelief and tentative, shaky _delight_.

'I was under the impression that –' Sherlock begins,

'My answer is yes, too, by the way.'

'Oh,' Sherlock pauses again, '...good.'

Then they are looking at each other and the bubble is back and nothing else exists and John rolls his eyes, curses himself for making stupid, stupid decisions, then makes one anyway. Closing the gap between himself and Sherlock, he kisses him frantically. Sherlock responds just as enthusiastically; John's hands are pressed against Sherlock chest, the purple shirt still only half buttoned. He snakes one under the fabric so his palm is pressed against Sherlock's skin, feeling its warmth tingling against his fingers and almost stumbling with the overwhelming rush of emotions.

Sherlock has one hand in John's hair and the other on the small of his back – nothing, nothing else matters – the feel of John's tongue against his is intriguing, surprisingly desirable, and _this_, this is what he wants. He doesn't know what it means or why or whether he can stop it or whether he _wants_ to stop it, but everything right now, everything is John –

John breaks away, gasping, and Sherlock continues to kiss him, 'breathing, Sherlock!' John reminds him; he feels Sherlock's smile more than sees it.

'Breathing's boring,' he reiterates; John has to agree that it certainly seems that way next to this alternative, but he laughs and pushes gently against Sherlock, leaning back without stepping away, feeling quite dizzy. He can still taste Sherlock's lips. This is _real_.

John decides now that everyone – everyone in the world – has the worst timing possibly imaginable, because both his and Sherlock's phones sound at almost the exact same moment. It is almost worth it to see the look of something like disappointment on Sherlock's face.

'Sarah,' says John, resignedly,

'Lestrade,' says Sherlock – their culprit has escaped. Of course Lestrade was unable to catch him...how had he ever been convinced otherwise? He should never have allowed John to bring him back here after the fall...but then, if he hadn't...

To his surprise, he is actually torn between leaving to resume the chase and staying here.

John sighs, and between them there passes one of those looks in which an entire conversation can be had without speaking a word.

'Meet you at Angelo's – two hours?' Sherlock asks as John steps away; John nods and nothing more need be said.

* * *

><p>Damn. Damn, damn, damn, damn, <em>damn.<em>

John is in a taxi. Travelling towards Sarah...travelling away from Sherlock.

It is telling enough that he wishes he were facing the other way, that he wants nothing more than to turn, to hide, to run, to do anything other than face the woman who is supposed to be his _girlfriend_. He had chosen to ignore these feelings, to move on – they were pointless, they would fade, it wasn't like Sherlock would ever be interested anyway – not like John _wanted_ to be interested in the first place.

War does not frighten him – guns do not frighten him, Mycroft Holmes does not frighten him. Not really.

Moriarty scares him. A little. A lot. Whatever. It's a reasonable thing to feel, he thinks defensively – he would be truly insane, if his other actions do not already make him so, to _not _be afraid of Jim Moriarty.

But this...this terrifies him. The thought of saying this, of telling her – what the _Hell_ is he going to tell her?

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes is not an emotional man by any stretch of the imagination – emotions, as a rule, are irrelevant, unimportant hindrances which serve only to slow him down and distract him from far more pressing matters, taking concentration and energy from the workings of his brilliant mind and stopping his brain functioning to its highest, most efficient capacity; unnecessary software he has long since deleted.<p>

As a rule.

But then, what interest does conformity hold to him? It's the anomalies, the mistakes, the _differences_ that are always much more fascinating, much more fun to work out – puzzles are his _element_, and this is certainly a puzzle.

There are a few people – a _very_ few people – who can be said to receive at least some level of what is almost affection from Sherlock. Occasionally there are those for whom Sherlock holds rather dubious levels of respect, though this often doesn't last long and of course he would _never_ admit to it. There are those who fascinate him, but these usually tend towards the kind of people John would deem _not good_.

There is Mrs Hudson, though; she is sweet and mothering, she scolds Sherlock, she insists she is not his housekeeper but still pops over once in a while to check both he and John are taking care of themselves properly, she hugs him and he permits her to – he even hugs her sometimes, she gets annoyed with him, yet she never stays so for very long. In short, she humours him, and he appreciates this.

There is Lestrade, if he really pushes the limits of the definition...certainly he tolerates the man, because he needs him in order to be allowed onto the really interesting cases, and once or twice – no more – Lestrade has even managed to earn grudging, always silent, approval from Sherlock.

Yes. There are some who Sherlock regards in a less than entirely deprecating manner.

And yes, there are some who manage to put up with Sherlock on at least a semi-regular basis without resorting to the usual childish jibes or petty grudges for whatever social grace he has bypassed most recently.

There is Molly, whose infatuation is with a man who doesn't exist. She _admires_ Sherlock, she may even have convinced herself she loves him. But she sees what she wants and closes her eyes to the rest, filling in the blanks with what she wishes were there. She convinces herself that he is someone he is not, nor will he ever be. Her feelings are for a figment of her own imagination.

Lestrade, and perhaps a select few of the rest of the police force, put up with him because they need him. They need his expertise, they are desperate, and they turn to Sherlock because they have no other choice.

Angelo's warmth is from gratitude and some misplaced belief that he _owes_ Sherlock; Mycroft's imitation of caring is somewhere between the dutiful older brother and the infuriating busybody.

None of this bothers Sherlock in the slightest; to be honest he couldn't care less either way what they think of him, good or bad; such minor concerns have long ago been consigned to an area of his mind he never looks in any more.

But then, there is John Watson.

John Watson is _the_ exception to the rule – to every rule – he is _fascinating_, he is unpredictable in his own way, he praises Sherlock in the same breath as telling him off, he gets angry and frustrated but no matter what Sherlock says or does, he _never_ leaves. He is just..._John_, and that is the only way to describe him. Sherlock cares what John thinks, he cares what John regards as _good_ or _not good_. He..._cares_.

John Watson, who owes Sherlock nothing and to whom Sherlock owes everything, who is loyal beyond rationality, who looks at Sherlock and sees what there is. He does not try and kid himself into thinking there is any more or less than what is plainly in front of him, he doesn't gloss over what he doesn't like or invent excuses for his flatmate's behaviour...he is regularly infuriated to within an inch of walking out, but he _never does_ – he shouts and storms away, but he always comes _back._

He is possibly the only person who sees both the good _and_ the bad in Sherlock, and does not place one above the other merely to better fit whatever image it suits him to create. He sees Sherlock, and he accepts it. And that is _different. _And different is _interesting_.

Sherlock is not _blind_, he has known this for a long time that there is something quite unique about John, something altogether captivating in a way no one else ever has been. He has _recognised_ it, of course, he knows that it's _there_, but even now he can't really say that he knows what it means. Which is of course part of the intrigue.

He knows that he can read John in a different way to how he reads other people – it's not all deduction, it's...familiarity, it's _something_ he can't quite put a name to. This frustrates him, this gap in his knowledge, but it is one he thinks, with a smile, that John will soon fill. He would not have anyone else do so.

He knows that he had not really registered the depth of whatever it is until he saw that _bomb_...until for a split second he was completely helpless to protect John, and all the oxygen in the room seemed to have vanished. He quite literally couldn't _breathe_ – it had actually physically _hurt_. He had never experienced anything quite like that before.

He remembers that the weeks – the weeks, not the days, of being in hospital, of waiting those long, long hours for his body to repair itself and for John to recover – were unbearable. He remembers every _second_ of it, he remembers the single, dreadful moment of waking up alone in the sterile room, when his brain had fed him information but _not enough_, when he had thought that John was dead.

He has tried to delete the memories, but they will not go away.

He will never forget the crushing knowledge that came to light then, that he is not, in fact, in control of his emotions, at least not as much as he would like to be.

He had hated that knowledge. He _hated_ the vulnerability that came with it, he hated not being a machine, a brain on its own, he hated having to have a heart and having to _feel_. He wanted nothing more than to banish those terrible emotions forevermore.

He never imagined they could make him feel so...so...he doesn't even know how to describe it.

He doesn't pretend to understand what is happening – but he doesn't pretend to resent it _quite_ so much anymore, if only because he is no longer bored.

Truth be told, regardless of this unusual...connection? Something of the sort anyway – he had never actually considered a _physical_ relationship with John. It had never interested him.

Since the pool, things have changed, yes – he has had to adjust to the realisation of the depth of these _emotions_, had to get over the resentment they initially caused. But it had been quite a novel sensation to discover himself wondering, while John treated his wounds, what the doctor's lips might taste like, what they would feel like against his own...still stranger to find that, when John pulled away and his lips curved into that tiny smile, his insides had seemed to sort of...turn over, though not unpleasantly. He had not expected that the pressure of John's hand on his cheek was not only welcome, but _wanted_, or that waking up with John draped over his chest would be quite so comfortable.

It certainly demands further experimentation, at any rate – which Sherlock eagerly anticipates.

* * *

><p><em>I was hoping you wouldn't realise<em>.

Why is it that Sarah's understanding, her almost complete lack of resentment, makes John feel even more guilty? He feels sick with it, he hates himself for what he has done to her, and yet all she did was smile and kiss his cheek and tell him she saw it coming long before he did. How, he can't imagine – how could she have seen what he himself had not realised – or accepted at least, until...well, until now? And why is he so ready to end things with her when he has absolutely zero guarantee of...of anything, with Sherlock or anyone else? Even though the words were so difficult to bring forth, why is the emotional parting so..._easy_?

Of course, he hadn't actually said anything much at all, he realises, as he walks away from her house with immense relief. He had arrived, she had let him in – he apologised for ending their date prematurely and she smiled, a little sadly.

_It's fine, I know this detective thing you have with Sherlock is important..._

Was it wrong that he had felt just a tiny bit irritated when she referred to it as a 'detective thing', like it was some sort of child's playground entertainment?

He couldn't bring himself to say it properly; he likes Sarah, he does, but just...it's somehow not as strong for her. Somehow different. Maybe it's the danger, the excitement, the _distinctiveness_ that simply is Sherlock. Maybe it is something else but much as he hasn't any idea what he does actually want, or what this means, he knows that his uncertainty means it cannot be Sarah. To pretend it could be would not be fair.

Sarah is pretty. Beautiful. She is smart, brave, fun...her company is...it's..._fine_. That word for when you don't want to talk about it, that _it could be worse_, that _acceptable_, that bland, ordinary word that is...well, it's fine. Nothing special, but nothing to complain about...yes. Sarah is fine. Great, perhaps. In another time, he really thinks he could be happy with her.

But Sherlock is _not_ fine. Sherlock...Sherlock leaves him speechless. He is almost as far from perfection as it is possible to come. Sherlock is flawed, and dangerous, and John should be running as fast as he can in the opposite direction, but...he needs him.

John and Sherlock are in many ways complete opposites, but only in so far as two jigsaw pieces are opposites, their differences the entire reason they fit together. Sherlock is the reason John is alive again after being sent home from Afghanistan, the reason he is _living_ again, not just _existing_.

Sherlock, who owes John nothing, and to whom John owes everything.

Sarah, who is _fine_.

_It's not that._

There had been a long pause after he had said that. Sarah was the one to break the silence.

_I get it._

She was clearly angry, clearly annoyed with him or with Sherlock or with herself, clearly she resented one or even all three of them, but the fact that she had been so very patient and kind, controlled...it only made John feel worse for what he had done.

_See you at work, then._

Her parting comment. So normal. So offhand. He knows it will not last, he knows there will be awkward moments and guilty glances, sadness and anger, arguments...but much as the guilt is crippling, the relief is even more stimulating, and he walks with a lighter step than before as he heads towards Angelo's, feeling...relaxed.

Sherlock is...things will not be _normal_...but John has never liked normal anyway.

* * *

><p>John arrives at Angelo's ten minutes late; Sherlock doesn't turn up until almost a quarter of an hour after that and the only thing even remotely out of the ordinary is that, even though John's cheeks redden when Angelo puts it down, neither of them object to the candle this time.<p>

Sherlock, John realises, never has.

There isn't really much to 'small talk' where Sherlock is concerned; the detective wastes no time in denouncing it as boring and pointless, with which John has to agree, so there are no awkward moments of asking questions neither wants to hear or giving answers neither cares to think about. Instead, Sherlock instantly deduces the life stories of their fellow diners and John listens to his animated explanations, littered with a great deal of '_obviously_'s and '_of course anyone can see'_s.

Which, John reminds him, they can't – Sherlock scoffs at this, John rolls his eyes, Angelo grins and offers free desert, which John demands that Sherlock eat, and all in all very little seems to be any different than every other meal at this restaurant or any other.

John isn't sure if this should unnerve him or reassure him – how _easy_ it seems already, how _natural_...how little has changed, really, when so much _should_ have. It does both, and he ends up feeling slightly giddy from happy confusion.

Sherlock maybe smiles more than usual, but he is still abrasive and John has to remind him several times of those things which are _not good_ to say. John doesn't try and stop himself from watching the way the candle lights Sherlock's face and makes the tips of his dark hair shine orange. They might, as they leave, be walking slightly closer than they would have before, but John only notices because Sherlock's fingers are brushing his as they do; Sherlock has warm hands, John thinks, and resists the urge to take one in his own. Sherlock smirks. John tries to hate him, and fails.

They climb into the taxi. John decides not to spend too much time wondering why something he is almost sure _was_ a date with Sherlock, was so very similar to any number of times when it most certainly was _not_. It's easier, he thinks, to accept 'it' for whatever it might be, and never mind struggling with labels. He informs Sherlock that when they get back to Baker Street, they are watching a film, and Sherlock is forbidden to guess the ending – or at the very least, forbidden to voice his suspicions.

But they never make it back to the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Anything you recognise, I do not own.**

**AN: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, I really appreciate the feedback.  
><strong>

There is less noise than before.

Still noise, but less than there was. Or at least, different now to then. Now it is voices – people. He doesn't know how many. His brain isn't functioning well enough to separate one from the next or even to try and figure out how close they might be, or why so many of them sound almost panicked.

Voices are a nicer sound than the last one he remembers hearing, even if they are afraid.

There was a scream, before. It might have been him. He doesn't know. He is confused.

There was a screech too, but that wasn't human. Machinery. Brakes, perhaps, though why this thought occurs to him he isn't sure.

There was breaking glass.

There was crunching metal.

There was someone, he thinks, calling his name, or perhaps that is his imagination.

There were headlights, too. That was before the crunch. His brain isn't remembering things in order. Headlights shining on him, shining bright bright bright...

Candles are bright. Why does he think of candles?

Little candles. Little flame. Little light.

Not like car lights. They are big and staring and yawning wide, burning, they hurt his eyes. But the candle is pretty. He wants the candle back. The candle reminds him of being quiet and warm and safe. It makes him think of smells. Smells that he likes. Food smells and coffee smells and nicotine smells.

Except he doesn't smoke, so why does he like nicotine smells?

It's a puzzle. He knows someone who likes puzzles. Maybe he should ask them. Who does he know who likes puzzles? He can't remember. But he thinks they will know the answer, so he tries to think of a name so he can find them...

And this makes him think about other things.

It's not only this person's name he can't remember. What is his own name? And why are the voices so scared? And why is he sore? And why is one of the voices much closer than the others?

He opens his eyes. Just a little bit. Not enough to see properly, but he makes out an olive skinned, blurry face in front of him. Not the face he wants to see. The face he wants to see is pale, and it likes puzzles, but he can't remember the name which belongs to that face, and this annoys him.

'Are you awake now?' The face asks him. This voice has an accent, but he can't place it. 'Are you okay?'

The voice is concerned. Why is it concerned?

'Do you hear me?' Too many questions. The face is asking too many questions. 'Do you know your name?'

And it comes to him, without really thinking about it very much. It hurts to think.

'John Watson,' he mumbles.

John blinks, and forces his eyes to open further. The anxious face of the taxi driver with the heavily accented voice stares back at him through the broken window, frowning. Why is the window broken?

'I climb through front screen,' says the driver, 'you climb out too?' John groans and tries to move, still not sure what has happened, but finds he cannot shift himself very far without it hurting, so he stops.

'No,' John manages, very quietly, 'I'm stuck...'

'Is okay,' says the driver, glancing over his shoulder. 'I call ambulance, they be here soon. Fire come too, they cut you out.' He attempts to curl his mouth into a reassuring smile but it is hampered by fear, his eyes darting around nervously, sickeningly fast. John closes his eyes. His head hurts, and he still doesn't know how he got here, wherever here is.

'There was accident,' the man tells him, 'car accident – I okay, I climb out. Not many injuries. But you are stuck. They will cut you out. Do not worry John Watson.'

John doesn't reply, and the taxi driver's voice becomes urgent.

'No sleep!' He exclaims, 'you keep talk to me, yes? No sleep now, you stay awake and you talk to me. I am Eduardo Lopez-Covas, you talk to me, okay?'

For some reason, the instructions sound familiar, but again, John cannot place them. He is forgetting something important, he knows. He tries to look around, as if this might give him some sort of clue, but Eduardo shakes his head frantically.

'No, no! You keep look at me, you look this way and you talk to me, yes?' John screws up his face in concentration. A car accident...there's been a car accident. He is in the car. He is stuck. The taxi driver seems fairly unharmed, though he is hardly in a position to be assessing his own injuries let alone anyone else's. But the fact that he was able to climb out means that the back of the cab must be more damaged than the front, because John is very much trapped where he is. _He can feel all his limbs though, so this is a good sign,_ he thinks. He cannot be too badly stuck.

But he is still forgetting something. He wishes he knew _what_, because he knows it is very, very important – the most important thing he could possibly think of, the most important thing in the world, and he has forgotten it.

'Where is home?' Asks Eduardo, clearly casting around for conversation topics to keep John conscious; John thinks for a moment. Another important thing he can't quite seem to bring to mind. He doesn't think he is that badly hurt, but he knows he must have hit his head. How long ago was the ambulance called?

It takes him much too long to answer.

'Baker Street,' he says eventually, finding it a struggle to force the syllables out in the right order; the words seem to be getting muddled on the path between his brain and his mouth, and he has to speak slowly to give the sounds time to come out properly, '221b, Baker Street.'

There. Again. That spark of something he should _definitely_ remember.

'You have family?' The man is still trying to get him to talk. John doesn't want to, he is _tired_, and it hurts to talk, but he knows he should, he knows he has to. He forces the medical side of his brain to take stock of where and how it hurts, the soldier side to grit his teeth and bear it as best he can, and the civilian side to answer obediently and wait for an ambulance, if only to make the driver, who looks terrified, feel better himself.

And still there is _something _he is missing, something _vital_.

'Sister,' says John, 'don't see her much. Don't get on,' _and something else, something he needs to think of..._

'Ah, that is too bad,' Eduardo sounds apologetic, and shakes his head, pauses. John starts to turn again, but his gaze is drawn back to Eduardo when he begins to speak, very quickly, as though distracting him. 'I have wife and two children. They are very beautiful.' He looks proud. John forces a smile.

'Was there anyone else...hurt?' John asks, 'the other car – is anyone –?'

Eduardo shakes his head.

'Only one man in other car. He run off hurt but not very bad. Probably drinking, probably not see, not know what has happened. It is very slippery.'

'So no one else was injured?' _So close to the important thing, so close..._Eduardo looks very uncomfortable.

'You not think about others, Mr Watson,' he says, 'you think about staying awake, you think about yourself, okay? Others worry. You concentrate on you.'

'Was – anyone else – injured?' John repeats with gritted teeth, angry now. The driver is keeping something from him. He hisses with pain as he tries to shift position.

'No stress yourself Mr Watson, look at me and talk and we wait for ambulance to arrive. You hear it now?' John hears it, and disregards it. He should turn around. He should turn and look, now, there is nothing stopping him, except the chilling fear that is creeping up his spine. He doesn't want to see. He knows, with the instincts that lay almost dormant after childhood, those feelings that tell you that you _know_ something is wrong, you _know_ that the room is not safe in the dark – with that same, cold, dread, he knows that he does not want to see what is on the other side of him.

'Why don't you want me to look around?' He demands, in as commanding a voice as he can manage, though it is weakened by the fear he hasn't the energy to cover up.

'Nothing, nothing – you concentrate on me though, yes – no, no look, not stress yourself –!'

John cannot stand it any longer. Swallowing a fear which is threatening to make him sick, he ignores Eduardo's protests, and he turns his head.

He wishes he hadn't. He desperately, desperately, wishes that he had not looked, because he will never, _ever_ be able to forget that image. Never be able to get it out of his head and he will never, not for the rest of his life, he will _never_ be able to forget this terrible, unbearable crushing feeling in his chest. His lungs collapse and his heart decides to stop beating. There's a rushing sound in his ears as his vision tunnels and the only thing in the world is what he sees in front of him. It is the only thing that has ever been and the only thing that ever will be, because nothing else even exists, and certainly nothing else matters.

He knows why Eduardo tried to stop him seeing this.

He knows what the important thing is now.

The important thing is Sherlock.

And Sherlock is...

His whole body is twisted at an odd angle, the side of the taxi has caved in and is trapping him far more thoroughly than John, who finds himself scrambling to move now, ignoring pain and ignoring Eduardo's calls. He tugs his legs from the wreckage around his feet desperately, reaching out for Sherlock – Sherlock is bleeding and unconscious, he is deathly pale and he is being _crushed_ – the other car hit exactly where he is sitting. There is blood trickling from below his hairline, blood seeping from old wounds, blood on his abdomen, there is _blood_.

'Mr Watson –'

'Sherlock – _Sherlock_!' John manages to pull himself free and moves awkwardly across, making no attempt to climb for the opening at the front of the car; the only thing he cares about is Sherlock.

Whose hand is cold. Icy cold.

'No, no no no no _no_, Sherlock – Sherlock! Sherlock wake up, come on, wake up – talk to me Sherlock, please, _please_ –' his fingers are trembling, his whole _body_ is trembling, and this makes it impossible to search for a pulse so he lays a hand tentatively on Sherlock's chest and feels the tiniest, most wonderful movement in the world as the detective takes a barely perceptible breath. He moves his hands so they are cupping Sherlock's face and turns it, ever so gently, towards himself. John's eyes are wet. He does not care.

'Sherlock – Sherlock, come on, come on, wake up. You're not even badly hurt. _Wake up, Sherlock_! You're fine. You're fine. Stop it. Stop it now, Sherlock, wake up. You have to wake up.' He chokes on the words, fighting furiously with the urge to shake the detective back to consciousness because he _has_ to wake up, he _has _to –

His eyelids flicker minutely.

'Sherlock?'

'John...' It is the quietest John has ever heard Sherlock speak, it is the most painful thing he has ever heard him say, and it is the most beautiful sound in the universe.

'Thank God, Sherlock –' John could pass out from relief, shivering even though he doesn't feel cold, '– come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...' he is still cupping Sherlock's face in his hands, rubbing lines down the taller man's cheeks, as much to sooth himself as Sherlock.

Sherlock opens his eyes blearily, finding it an exhausting effort just to raise his eyelids. He lets his head rest in John's hands, too tired to keep it up himself, and through blurred vision manages to make out John's drawn, terrified face. _Injured – John must be injured –_

'Are you...alright?'

John could laugh, he really could. Of all the times Sherlock could decide to prioritise someone else's wellbeing over his own, he has to choose now.

'I'm fine,' he chokes. He cannot say anything else; the words won't seem to come.

'Good...' a long pause, while Sherlock almost frowns but finds it too difficult. John looks awful, pale, strained and...something Sherlock cannot identify. But if he is not hurt, what could the cause be? He realises slowly as he watches John's searching eyes, and if he could spare the energy, he would wonder what the strange feeling he has at the revelation is. John is concerned for _him_. 'Am I...alright?'

'Yeah,' John lies, 'of course. Just another knock on the head, that's all. We'll get you out of here in no time; you'll be on your feet before you know it.'

'You're a bad liar John,' he coughs. It's painful. John winces.

'I'm not lying.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock breathes, eyelids drooping. He's trying to keep them open, really he is, but it's so hard...and isn't John always telling him he ought to sleep more? But he says to stay awake now...he _can't_, he just can't. He's never felt this fatigued, this bone-weary before, and he knows this is a bad sign; he doesn't need John's expression to tell him that. Oddly, though, he doesn't feel anything more than a dull background ache of his injuries...nothing more than sore muscles after a chase, and John is overreacting again, as usual...yes, that's it...

John forces himself not to think about how cold Sherlock's skin is, banishing the doctor's voice in his mind because he refuses to listen to its prognosis, as he tries to inject some confidence into his voice.

'Don't think you'll be able to refuse the blanket this time,' he says. Sherlock closes his eyes.

'No – Sherlock! Don't do that, you know you're not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It's nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.' Strange, how he himself was so exhausted only minutes ago and now, he knows, he could not sleep if he was drugged. He has never been so afraid, not even in Afghanistan, because if he is bad at lying to Sherlock he is even worse at lying to himself and Sherlock is _not_ alright. His breathing is short, shallow and ragged, his words are quiet and hoarse, and when John moves his hand down to the patch of blood on Sherlock's abdomen, he is sure he feels glass but daren't look even as the liquid seeps through his fingers. His hand comes away red, and he presses it back again, ignoring Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.

Sherlock's arm is not supposed to be bent that way. He has blood in his mouth. John's heart feels like it has been placed in a clamp.

'I don't think...my legs – John,'

'Can you feel them?' Asks John, panicked. He can hear the sirens now, much closer. _Please, please hurry..._

'No.'

'Try and move them,' he says automatically, knowing it is inadvisable, that he should be telling Sherlock to stay completely still in case of spinal injuries, but he says it anyway. His brain just isn't working enough to think straight – Sherlock obeys, and immediately cries out in pain.

'Can...feel them...now...' he gasps once he has stopped trying to move them, 'it..._hurts_.'

And the tears on Sherlock's face frighten John more than anything he has seen so far. John sees blue lights out of the corner of his eye and moves to look, taking his hands away from Sherlock momentarily, praying, praying they are here...

'John? John! Where – where are...'

'I'm here,' he quickly grabs Sherlock's hand and squeezes it. Sherlock grips back as firmly as he can, but his hold is weak; John tries not to think about it, keeping one hand on the wound on Sherlock's abdomen, but the bleeding _won't stop_. Sherlock' eyes are slipping shut again.

'I can't...breathe...' he mumbles, his chest heaving without drawing in enough air, he is _trying_, he's fighting it as hard as he can if only because he doesn't like hearing John sound so afraid, and because he knows that he _should_ be trying to stay conscious, but it is difficult…it is so, so difficult...John's face is growing more blurry, his voice is more distant...

'It's okay, Sherlock, you're just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you'll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that's it, concentrate...'

'Can't concentrate...can't _think_...'

'Sherlock – Sherlock!' But he has fallen unconscious again – and John's heart stops at the same time as Sherlock's breathing. 'No, Sherlock, _no_! Breathe, for God's sake, Sherlock, breathe!' He reaches out a shaking hand to check Sherlock's pulse _and there isn't one_. There are definitely emergency services here now but they can't reach them, so John starts chest compressions as best he can in his position, barely thinking, frantically and desperately breathing for Sherlock until the lungs under his hands shudder into life again, until his heart stumbles back to a normal rhythm. John lets out something between a sob and a cry of relief. He kisses Sherlock's forehead, brushing dark curls from the detective's face, muttering words of comfort he knows that Sherlock can't hear, but he won't stop, he won't leave space for that awful voice of realism in the back of his mind. He _won't listen to it_.

'You'll be okay, Sherlock, you'll be fine. The ambulance is here now, they'll get us out, it won't be long, you'll be fine, you'll be fine...fine...'

* * *

><p>Later – John forgets the exact amount of time, loses track – he is in the back of an ambulance with Sherlock. He refused to climb out of the car until they had got Sherlock out and insisted on travelling with him. He tugs the shock blanket they have given him further around himself with a mixture of revulsion and amusement – mostly simply a need for the paltry comfort it offers. The blanket reminds him of Sherlock, <em>not<em> in shock. It makes him think of what might have happened if he had not turned up on time at the scene, if he had missed the taxi driver and Sherlock had taken that damn pill, or worse, if he had not hit the driver, if instead the bullet had hit –

It makes him think of near misses and Sherlock's indignant face. It makes him think of dawning realisation in Sherlock's eyes and reminds him of Chinese food and door handles, of fortune cookies and the decision he made a long time before he ever voiced it.

And maybe, after all, he does need it. His teeth are chattering but he barely notices, ignoring the sting as one paramedic treats the minor cuts he has gained. This is not _fair_. He has not even broken a bone; his worst injury is the throbbing lump on the side of his head, the taxi driver has a dislocated shoulder but little else, and Sherlock...Sherlock is – Sherlock could – but _no_. He won't think that, he won't listen to that voice even when the whole ambulance is devoid of oxygen because Sherlock's heart has stopped, and the air does not come back until it has started again. It is worse the second time, and John doesn't realise he is shouting out until the paramedic lays a hand on his arm and tries to calm him, but he won't _listen_, he _can't_, and don't they _see_?

When John collapses into a chair in the waiting room of the hospital, his body feels as though it, as well as Sherlock's, has been subjected to the electric shocks in an attempt to bring life back to it. It doesn't seem to have worked on him though.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

It isn't even a real thought which chases itself around John's head in time with the ticking clock, just a name and a face, sometimes a voice, a tired, hoarse, broken voice...

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

He is in surgery. John doesn't know how long for. He has stopped watching the clock – or rather, stopped registering the movement of its hands. He glances at the plastic face several times a minute, but he never really notices what the time is, or how much has passed; only that the hands don't actually seem to move, and then suddenly they move much too quickly, time sliding past in uneven chunks without any sort of pattern.

The coffee in his hands is cold now – it's not even how he likes his coffee, but he only realised that after he had made it and he hasn't the energy to tip it away. He made it by accident. Black, two sugars – just how Sherlock drinks it.

His hands are shaking. He watches them, between the looks towards the clock. He cannot make them stay still.

Sherlock. Sherlock. _Sherlock_.

They are clean now. His hands. He didn't do it – a paramedic must have wiped the blood away for him, but he wasn't paying attention. He can still see it, still feel it. Warm. Red. A much too familiar sight...drying on his skin, blood that isn't his, seeping from wounds he cannot heal – there have been too many of those, he decides, far too many.

_Any good?_

_Very good._

Yes. He told Sherlock that, and it was – is – true. But not good _enough_, not good enough to save them all, not good enough to stop all the bleeding or cure all the disease, not good enough to pull himself together and do something more useful than babble nonsense words of pointless comfort...

Sherlock.

There is no false hope for a doctor to cling to, no comfort in ignorance. He cannot pretend not to understand.

'I sit here?' John looks up listlessly. The taxi driver gestures to the chair beside him; John nods tightly, not trusting his voice to work properly. 'I am sorry,' Eduardo says mournfully, 'about your friend.'

'Don't –' John begins, but his throat closes and he has to swallow the lump there before he can make another coherent sound. It can't be that long ago that he and Sherlock were sat in Angelo's restaurant... 'he'll be fine. It wasn't your fault.' Eduardo nods with grim understanding on his face,

'I pray for you, and for your friend,' he tells John, who closes his eyes and grips his coffee cup to stop his hands shaking. 'I pray to heal him. I am sorry.'

Another silent nod, and Eduardo, true to his word, leans forwards with his elbows on his knees and his eyes closed, murmuring words in Spanish which John does not understand but which are oddly soothing. He finds himself listening just to take him away from his own thoughts, concentrating on the sound of the words more than trying to interpret their meaning.

And so they sit, and wait; Eduardo prays, John listens and tries to ignore the empty feeling which threatens to engulf him.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but Eduardo and a certain doctor some of you might recognise from my post-TGG series. **

**AN: Umm, yeah...I claim creative licence for Harry; she never actually came into the show, so this includes just my take on her. I hope it's okay. (Warning: language). Sorry for the lateness of this chapter - I started University on Sunday so this is the first free moment I've had since!  
><strong>

Eduardo has long fallen silent but he hasn't moved from his position beside John, which is both comforting and disconcerting. John is not thinking now, not of anything. He listens to the sound of his own breath and stares at the ground with his hands clasped in front of him – he doesn't know where the coffee has got to – his mind is blank and empty, as though he has exhausted himself beyond the capacity for coherent thought.

He doesn't really see the floor even though he is barely blinking. He doesn't really smell the antiseptic of the hospital even though he is breathing deliberately slowly and deeply. He doesn't really hear the sounds of bleeping and ringing and talking around him even though they are the only things tethering him to consciousness. He just doesn't _feel_.

Were he capable, he would probably diagnose himself as being in shock, but the fact is that he has purposefully cut his senses off from his surroundings. It's less painful that way, to be apart from them, separate himself from the world and the news he is dreading.

Then all of a sudden – a sound he barely registers, perhaps a sight, a smell – _something_ reminds him of what has happened and why he is here. He feels sick, bile rising in his throat and he just wants to _run_. He wants to shout, he wants to _wake up_ and find himself – find himself still on the sofa with Sherlock, to never have to move from that spot. Or in the kitchen, looking at the text from Sarah and ignoring it, somehow convincing Sherlock to ignore Lestrade. Or at Angelo's, staying just a few minutes longer. Catching another taxi, _anything_, anything different, anything _not this_, anything that could mean that Sherlock is not...perhaps if he had got into the other side. If he had sat where Sherlock had chosen and Sherlock had taken his place, then Sherlock would be fine...

He feels a hand on his arm and looks up into Eduardo's concerned face, startled. He doesn't think he gave any outward sign of distress.

'Your hands,' Eduardo explains kindly; when John looks, he sees that he is gripping them together so tightly they are turning white, and relaxes them. 'You should not worry, I am sure your friend be okay.'

John closes his eyes against the wetness he feels rising in them and nods. Eduardo takes his hand away, but does not stop watching John,

'You care about him very much,' he says. John can't bring himself to reply, knowing that if he speaks he will lose the battle he is having with the lump in his throat.

It might be minutes or hours later that another, unfamiliar voice calls, 'Mr Watson?' and John looks up to see a plump, grey haired woman approaching. He stands automatically and feels inexplicably grateful when Eduardo does the same, though the taxi driver makes sure he is placed slightly behind John.

'My name is Doctor Fircroft,' the doctor begins gently,

'Sherlock –?' is all John can manage to say.

'Mr Holmes is out of surgery,' John instantly sags with relief, then tenses as he recognises the tone of the doctor's voice, 'and is stable for the moment, but we really can't tell much more until he wakes up.'

'And when will that be?' _Don't answer, don't answer, don't answer_...

'Mr Holmes lost a lot of blood –'

'_When_?' John already knows what the reply will be. Part of him needs to hear it out loud. Part of him dreads it.

'– and given that his heart stopped more than once just in the ambulance on the way here...'

'You don't know,' John finishes. The doctor shakes her head. John clenches and unclenches his fist, breathing hard through his nose.

'We have high hopes,' – _no, you don't; I'm a doctor, you can't fool me –_ 'you may well have saved his life, Mr Watson.'

'I didn't do anything,' John says listlessly, 'I just...'

'You slowed the bleeding to some extent before the paramedics were able to reach him, and you kept him fighting. That _matters_, Mr Watson.'

_No, it doesn't, because it wasn't good enough, was it?_

'Can I see him?' he asks. She hesitates before she replies, considering. John knows it should only be family – he thinks with an awful, part guilty, part angry pang of Mycroft – but he is not going to be kept away.

'Yes,' she says eventually, and then adds sternly, 'but only one person.' She eyes Eduardo, who bows his head respectfully to John,

'You tell me how he is after. I hope he is well soon.' John gives another silent nod before he follows the doctor away, terrified of what he will see.

* * *

><p>'<em>JOHN!' <em>

_The shout will do no good but it's automatic, torn from Sherlock's lips before he has time to think about it. He's seen the car and he knows for a moment what is going to happen but is helpless to stop it. It's the longest moment of his life, and yet he doesn't have time to do anything more than call John's name as he hears, louder even than his desperate shout, drowning out everything else, a deafening crunch and a squeal. He is spinning, moving so fast, and all the breath has been knocked out him, wrenched around, pulled and twisted with the out-of-control movement of the car – _

_He doesn't know what happens after that until he feels someone's hands on his face. He feels them lifting it towards them, but he can't open his eyes. He feels too heavy to move. He hears John's voice – he sounds afraid – and forces himself to look. He doesn't like how weak his own voice sounds, not like himself, not strong and authoritative and certain. He can tell by John's face there are worse injuries than the doctor is letting on, and can't seem to keep himself awake despite John's protests...he's freezing, and this can't be good..._

_He can't feel his legs until he tries to move them, and then he almost passes out from the pain. It takes every bit of energy he can summon, every ounce of willpower to keep listening to John's voice, letting it tether him to consciousness...John is okay and he is here, and he's a doctor, so Sherlock will be okay...childish logic, but it will do for now. He hasn't the brainpower to think anything more taxing. He can't see properly, his vision is blurry so he concentrates on his other senses...smell. He can smell something metallic...no, this can't be good either..._

_He can hear John, which _is_ good, so he lets the sound fill his brain, the only thing keeping him awake. He can feel John's hand pressing on his abdomen. It's painful...he assumes that is where most of the blood is coming from, though he can see something dark dripping in front of his eye and thinks that might be, too. One hand is still on his face, absently rubbing the skin in a way which is almost comforting, but the feeling is swamped by his injuries..._

_Then both sensations go away and he can't see John, and his legs hurt and his abdomen hurts and his head hurts, and he can't hear John either; he has gone quiet. Suddenly Sherlock is colder and he shouts out. It doesn't matter that he sounds ridiculous and child-like, he needs to know where John is or he can't stay awake…he needs to know that John is okay, so he will be okay. John will make sure of that …he trusts John..._

_John's hand is back in his and he tries to grip it tightly to reassure himself that it's there, but his muscles aren't really working properly and he can't...he can't breathe either. He struggles to draw in enough oxygen to keep himself awake. His chest feels like it's being crushed...just a little squashed John says, and Sherlock tries to believe him...John tells him to concentrate, but how can he concentrate when he cannot think?_

_His vision fades, and he dithers on the edge of awareness...time seems to be passing strangely...John is talking to him, murmuring something he can't hear, only enough to register that he recognises the voice. Then he is jolting, moving somewhere. Nothing for a while, and then John's desperate shouts...what could he be shouting at? Sherlock tries opening his eyes but there is a fog in his mind now and he can't bring himself to wake up..._

* * *

><p>John stops at the entrance to Sherlock's room and for a moment can't make himself move any further in. He's seen things like this before, seen worse than this so many times.<p>

But this is Sherlock. This is _different_. Because Sherlock just...it's an impossible notion, for Sherlock Holmes to be like this. It's not an image John thinks anyone could imagine if they had not seen if for themselves. He's having a hard enough time believing it when the sight is right in front of him.

Just hours ago – just a few hours, they were at _home_, they laughed...less than a day since they were racing through the streets together, since everything was _normal_...

_You don't know_.

They don't, and he doesn't; it makes John want to scream, because _somebody_ should know if – _when_ – Sherlock is going to wake up. They just _should_, there shouldn't be such uncertainty. John has worked with uncertainty before though. He has worked under pressure and confusion few people can think of let alone experience; so why is he now so angry that he can't be told more, that there _isn't_ anything more to tell?

The doctor leaves John alone eventually, muttering something sympathetic on her way out and patting his arm, but it gives him no comfort. He stays where he is, in the doorway, staring, until his vision shifts and swims and the room looks much bigger. Much emptier, with Sherlock alone in the middle of it; Sherlock _alone_, with him standing here watching uselessly. Silently berating himself for his inaction John steps forwards and sits in the chair beside the bed, reaching out for Sherlock's hand as he does.

He doesn't move for three hours.

* * *

><p>'<em>I can't...breathe...' Sherlock forces the words out and John fights panic, trying to comfort Sherlock. Trying to tell him it will be alright, he knows it will; it <em>has_ to be – because if Sherlock isn't – if Sherlock doesn't – it just can't happen, it _can't_. John's seen him walk away from far too much to let himself believe he won't simply shake this off, too._

'_It's okay, Sherlock, you're just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you'll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that's it, concentrate...'_

'_Can't concentrate...can't _think_...' _

'_Sherlock – Sherlock!' His eyes slip shut again, his chest stops moving, but John will not let himself believe it, he will not, he will not. It can't be happening, he _won't let it_ happen. But no matter how many times he breathes for Sherlock, no matter how much he tries amid his calls, his desperate efforts and tears, Sherlock is not waking up. He is not breathing – Sherlock has no pulse – 'Sherlock!' he shouts again, and someone is pulling him back. Someone is tugging him away and telling him to stop it but he won't, he won't, Sherlock will be _fine_, 'SHERLOCK!' _

'_John –' someone pulls on his arm urgently – he wrenches it away, _

'_Sherlock!'_

'_John – _John!'

* * *

><p>'John!'<p>

He wakes with a start and looks wildly around, his gaze skipping over the concerned face looming in front of him and coming to rest on Sherlock, whom he watches until his own breathing returns to normal. Sherlock's chest is still rising and falling steadily, albeit with the help of a machine. The heart monitor is still beeping. _Breathe, John_.

Only when he has satisfied himself that Sherlock is definitely, definitely still alive, does he look back towards Sarah.

'Are you okay?' she asks; he glares at her in answer, feeling irrationally angry with her presence, but she doesn't back away. 'Sorry,' she says, 'I only meant – you weren't hurt, were you?'

'Not really,' John replies. It's easier than explaining how much he wishes he could change places with Sherlock. Easier than describing the _shock_ that won't even let him process it, like missing his footing on the stairs, times a million...like the world has dropped away beneath him. How can he have gone, so quickly, from having _everything_, everything he has wanted for so long, to having it all ripped away from underneath him? How can he so suddenly be so unbalanced and lost – feeling as though he has tripped and is still falling, is yet to reach the ground – and is there even a ground to reach?

'How did you –?' he begins quietly,

'I saw it on the news,' she says, 'I had to come and make sure you were...' she trails away. John shakes his head, not sure what to think, or why her being here irritates him so much.

'I'm sure he'll be fine,' she tells him kindly,

'Yeah,' John un-sticks his throat with difficulty; the trouble is, if any of the people telling him this actually believed it, they wouldn't feel the need to reassure him of the fact. And he wouldn't feel the need to hear it.

'Is there anything –?'

'Not really.'

Part of him even blames her. If not for her he wouldn't be here; he wouldn't have left the flat. They wouldn't have gone to Angelo's if she hadn't texted and they wouldn't have caught the taxi. He would have gone with Sherlock to Lestrade and then they would be on the chase again and it would be _normal_.

He forces these thoughts away with difficulty, but can't help the resentful glare that flickers across his face.

'Are you sure you're – you were...well, you were talking and –'

'Bad dream,' John informs her shortly, 'I'll – don't worry.'

'John...'

'Don't.' She looks as though she might open her mouth to speak again, before another voice cuts across from the doorway; a voice John _definitely_ doesn't want to hear.

'Really, don't,' it says, 'it's safer for all of us if you don't piss him off.' Sarah looks round, startled, and John sighs without so much as glancing towards the new arrival.

'Harry, go away,' he instructs her tiredly without looking. Harry makes a sound between amusement and derision, standing resolutely where she is until Sarah squeezes John's shoulder, makes him promise to call if he needs anything, and murmurs _look after him_ to his sister on the way out. John cannot decide who he would least like to have a conversation with right now; his ex-girlfriend or his sister, but it seems the choice is not his to make.

'John,' his name, again – why do they insist on saying it so much? Do they think it will help somehow? He forces himself to look up, at long last, and is surprised by what he sees; something that would almost cause a pleasant jolt in his stomach if not for his all-encompassing fear for Sherlock.

Harry looks...healthy. Almost. For her, at least...her hair, usually quite limp and unkempt of late, is tied haphazardly back into a ponytail, her face is pinched and drawn, but her eyes seem bright, her pupils normal. She isn't swaying on the spot or slurring her speech, which is a bonus, and she looks deadly serious, which is terrifying.

'I've been sober for over three weeks,' she tells him firmly, knowing only too well the thoughts that are running through his head, 'you'd know that if you picked up the phone every once in a while.'

'Sorry,' he says mechanically, 'that's good...really good, Harry.' He's sincere as he says it, but he doesn't think it comes through in his voice. He just sounds worn out.

'Yeah, well,' she steps further into the room, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jeans, 'guess I'm just sick of fucking everything up.'

'You don't –'

'Oh, leave it, John, I know what you think of me,' she shrugs, and John finds himself grateful for the fact that she hasn't mentioned Sherlock yet, because this feels almost _ordinary_. 'Don't worry about it. I'm fixing things. Or trying to anyway. But I'll do it my own way,' she finishes stubbornly. John nods his agreement, proud and pleased under the exhausting worry, giving her a tight smile.

'I'm glad.'

'And I'm not here to talk about me,'

'Harry, just –'

'Your girlfriend called me. She told me she thought I ought to come and make sure you were okay. So here I am. And I'm not going to ask, I already know the answer, but I'm staying anyway.' She's perched on the edge of the bed now, regarding John with eyes almost the exact same shade as his, set in a sharper, older face which otherwise barely resembles his own.

'She's not my girlfriend,' John mutters. Harry raises an eyebrow and her lip twitches as she glances towards Sherlock, but then she is serious again and she slides off the bed. She paces for a moment before replying.

'Were you hurt?' She phrases the question carefully, John notices, not asking him if he's _alright_ or _okay_, which he appreciates. He shrugs.

'Not really,' he stands too, because he can't sit any longer, he can't be doing _nothing_. The bleeping of the heart monitor fills his ears – it's only been a few hours, he tells himself, not long at all given the injuries...Sherlock will be awake in no time, no time at all. But he saw the blood; he saw how much Sherlock lost...and what about the internal injuries? His heart stopped...what if his brain was oxygen deprived? What damage might that have done...?

'He'll be –'

'I really wish people would stop saying that,' John growls dangerously; Harry is unperturbed, and takes a step towards him.

'They're trying to help.'

'It's not working,' his voice cracks on the words. He squeezes his eyes shut and deliberately turns away from Harry, who is still regarding him steadily.

'It's only been...'

'I know, okay?' He whirls back around – he doesn't _know_ why he's so upset, he wouldn't _expect_ Sherlock to be awake yet, but the fact is that he isn't. John can still feel the blood, still smell it, he can still see the paramedics furiously trying to restart Sherlock's heart.

'Oh, John...' Harry's voice is suddenly gentle and she moves to wrap her arms around him, but John backs away,

'No – don't do that, Harry. Don't.'

'Why?' she asks. John would prefer they argue over her drinking again. He doesn't want to answer.

'Because...' he says. It's stupid, it's so stupid he can't believe he's letting himself buy into it, but it's true, he can't help it. 'Because last time you hugged me was because our parents were dead,' and now his voice is _definitely_ not steady, but he's holding it as best he can, forcing the words out shakily. 'If you hug me now – if you – then it means that you think –' he doesn't like that his voice is that much higher pitched than normal, doesn't like the effort it is taking to speak. 'It means you think that Sherlock is going to...that he won't – it means –'

But then her arms are around him anyway, and he's gripping the back of her jacket tightly in his fists, gritting his teeth and fighting the tears because he knows they are _stupid_, but they come anyway. Harry rubs his back soothingly while he takes shuddering breaths to calm himself, ignoring the fact that the shoulder of her jacket is now damp.

'No, it doesn't,' she whispers. 'It means I'm trying to make my little brother feel better, because he's just been in a car accident, he's in shock, and he's scared. It'll be fine, John, I promise, it'll be fine...he'll be awake by tomorrow morning, you'll see. Remember all those things you write about on your blog? He's a stubborn bastard; he'll get bored of being in here in no time...'

* * *

><p><em>No time<em> is apparently longer than five days though, because that's how long has passed. John has, when forced to leave the hospital, very reluctantly stayed at Harry's. He doesn't think he can stand to go back to Baker Street, but he has spent as much time as possible beside Sherlock's bed.

Still time, he tells himself, there's still plenty of time. Five days isn't very long, not for someone with Sherlock's injuries, it's not very long at all...Harry is right, which he would never normally admit. Sherlock will be bored of something so dull as being unconscious very soon, and will be his usual insufferable self...he will be _fine_...how he is coming to hate that word...

No time at all.

* * *

><p>And <em>no time at all<em> is longer than two weeks, but John keeps assuring himself that this is still not as bad as it could be. At least Sherlock is in a stable condition, and he will be awake before they know it. The normal rules just don't apply to Sherlock. This won't even slow him down. He'll just open his eyes and...he just _will_. Who cares that it isn't medically that simple? What does he give a _damn _about Glasgow Coma Scales or brain damage or any of the other million things that argue against it being true? It doesn't matter that the chances dwindle every day or that John knows the statistics by heart, because this. Is. _Sherlock_.

Mycroft does not visit often, but he is solemn and quiet when he does. John mostly avoids talking to him, but of all Sherlock's guests he turns out to be the one John dreads the least. John smiles weakly, and promptly bursts into a fresh wave of tears, when he thinks what Sherlock would say to this information.

Molly visits twice, leaving flowers and a small stuffed teddy bear which produces a similarly confused reaction when John imagines Sherlock's response.

Sarah doesn't come again after the third time. John knows she visits more for his sake than Sherlock's, but he still can't really talk to her; all of their conversations are awkward and stilted. There are a dozen things she is too tactful to say and an equal number John's conscience quickly stifles when they surface. Gradually she just stops trying, and despite the guilty pain in his chest, John finds he doesn't really care about losing her company. Part of him is even glad.

Lestrade pops his head in at least as often as Mycroft. Even Eduardo checks in from time to time, always frantically apologetic and nervous. John tells him over and over that it is not his fault, knowing all the while that it is _he_, John, who is to blame. He hasn't even got the heart to hold Sarah responsible after the second week passes.

It's when Mrs Hudson comes that John finds it hardest. She doesn't know what to do or say, and fusses around plumping Sherlock's pillows and trying to get John to eat, which he knows he should. He feels guilty for making her worry even more, but he can't make himself keep the food down. She asks him to come back to Baker Street.

On the sixteenth day, John accepts.

'I'll get you some tea,' Mrs Hudson says, hurrying inside before John does. He wonders vaguely if this is just because his company has become so difficult that she doesn't want to be around him.

Sherlock should be awake by now, Sherlock should be _here_. He's numb as he walks up the stairs, numb as he opens the door, and numb as he looks at the room beyond. He's numb until he sees the first aid kit still sprawled on the floor, when the weight of it seems to hit him at last and he almost literally reels with it. He can't breathe, he can't see – this isn't right, Baker Street is empty and it isn't _right_. He hates that first aid kit now. He hates it because it should be enough. It should be all that Sherlock needs. John should be able to _do something_ to save him – but no, don't think that, he doesn't need saving, he only needs saving if he's going to –

_No_. This just – Sherlock will wake up, Sherlock has to wake up because John can't do this. It burns not seeing Sherlock curled on the sofa with his violin, it aches not being told he is an idiot, it stings to go to the kitchen and know exactly what he will find there; it _hurts_.

Without thinking, John aims a kick towards the first aid box and it flies across the room. He pushes a stack of papers to the floor, not knowing what they are. He throws the glass that was sat on the table and hears it shatter against the wall –

He comes to his senses as he watches the shards clatter to the floor, glittering sharply. He stands, shaking and ashamed, for a long time before he goes to pick it up. His trembling fingers slip on the pieces so that one slices deep into his hand but he ignores the pain and tries to gather the others up. He can't feel it, not really, doesn't even notice until Mrs Hudson's hand closes around his wrist – he didn't hear her enter – and she pulls him gently to his feet.

'Now, that's not helping is it?' she says, sounding very much like his mother. John doesn't reply, and she shakes her head as she gathers plasters and antiseptic. She leaves him sitting in the red chair on his own as she, much more carefully, clears up the mess he has made. He picks absently at the plasters, staring at the empty grey chair opposite.

Sixteen days since he's last been here. It's wrong that nothing has changed. Everything is exactly where he and Sherlock left it, and it _shouldn't be_. He doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to see it; he doesn't want that empty chair staring at him. _Sherlock_ should be sat in that chair, or leaning over an experiment in the kitchen or scraping noisily at his violin, shooting holes in the wall, or typing away on his laptop or _something_.

It echoes without him. The room echoes. John's own thoughts echo.

He sleeps on Mrs Hudson's sofa for the night, because he cannot stand it in here alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: Involves a short lesson on the Solar System, courtesy of John. I am very sorry for the wait in getting this chapter up; my beta and I both have extremely busy lives at the moment!**

Sherlock is vaguely aware that something is wrong, but he isn't quite sure what.

He's on his own, he knows that – and it's dark. Or at least...foggy. He feels like he is underwater. All his senses are muffled and he can't figure out where he is or how he got here, or how to get out. John should be here and he tries to call out, but finds his voice isn't working and neither are his limbs. Everything feels heavy.

His concentration drifts for a long time. Or maybe a short time, he can't be certain. He thinks of nothing; an entirely new experience to him and not one he wants to repeat. He listens to the distant, unidentifiable sounds like waves, letting them guide his wandering mind until he comes back, and realises again the presence of something strange.

He must have hit his head, he decides. He can't really think when, but he doesn't think there can be another explanation for this situation. John ought to be here; he ought to be doing something about it. But maybe John is hurt too – for a moment he sees an image of John's face; he looks afraid. What could John have to be afraid of? Sherlock tries to speak again, but he still can't make a sound.

_Sherlock runs around the corner too quickly, his arms windmill through the air and his feet slide from beneath him as he falls sideways – _

He fell. He remembers falling on the ice – and the murderer, the murderer got away. Lestrade followed and John stayed...stupid Lestrade, he probably let the culprit escape...and John insisted they return to Baker Street. But that injury wasn't this bad, surely?

_John is resting his forehead against Sherlock's and Sherlock is smiling...John's hand on his face hurts and the doctor moves away quickly, apologising, but Sherlock doesn't want him to move...then John is smiling too, he kisses Sherlock again, tells him to shut up..._

No. Definitely not that bad.

'_JOHN!' Noise and movement and _pain_ – opening his eyes slowly, seeing John –_

A car, he remembers a car – how long ago was that? He can't tell. John was awake then, though, John must be okay...so why isn't he?

'_Thank God, Sherlock – come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...'_

_But he is tired..._

'_No – Sherlock! Don't do that, you know you're not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It's nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.'_

Did he fall asleep? He must have...John told him not to. This must be why. He wants to move, it's very dull just being in here, in nothingness. But no matter how hard he tries he can't make himself speak, he can't do anything...

* * *

><p>John moves a dark curl from where it has found itself over Sherlock's left eye before he sits down. His fingers ghost gently across Sherlock's forehead, lingering against his skin moments longer than necessary.<p>

It is thirty two days exactly since the accident. Every time someone dares mention the word _coma_, John either pointedly ignores them or leaves the room, much the same as when anyone dares bring up _brain damage_. Harry has more than once tried to tell him he's in denial; he has more than once told her, quite colourfully, to drop it. He doesn't care what they say. They don't _know_. They don't know Sherlock, not like he does.

'That lead didn't go anywhere,' John announces without preamble. Sherlock cannot hear him and there is no one else in the room, but talking is better than just sitting. Maybe Sherlock _is_ aware of his presence on some level. Even if the only result of this is that he is so terminally bored by what John has to say that he will wake up purely so he no longer has to listen. At least he would be awake. Talking _helps_, it makes John feel as though he's here for a reason, not just to stare at Sherlock's unmoving form and battle with the paralysing fear of Harry being right. Sometimes he even imagines Sherlock reacts – a flickering eyelid or a twitching finger – but when he looks again, there's nothing there.

'Epps is still on the run. Lestrade was convinced we had him this time...' Epps is the killer Sherlock was chasing before his fall on the ice. John frowns with uneasiness at his statement – there have been no more murders, but he knows it is probably only a matter of time...they cannot deny they need Sherlock. John takes a deep breath, trying to convince himself it isn't shaky.

'But we caught the burglar – I was right after all...you'd probably have figured it out in about half the time. Actually no, you probably wouldn't even have taken the case, but...' but John doesn't want to be doing nothing and Lestrade, most likely only to humour him or in some attempt to protect him from himself, has requested John's presence at crime scenes several times over the last month. Much to the dismay of both Anderson and Donovan, 'Anderson wasn't happy – you should have seen his face...complaining about amateurs...I almost hit him. Don't worry, if I do, I'll make sure you're there to watch. And speaking of watching, I haven't forgotten the film deal. As soon as we're back at the flat, okay? And you're still not allowed to guess the ending.'

He rambles on pointlessly, aimlessly. His voice trails off and picks up again at entirely unrelated topics, just so he can continue an almost unbroken stream of nonsense sound to keep himself from going mad with the silence. There's never silence around Sherlock, and there never should be. Even when he demands that no one speak or move or breathe, because he's thinking. Around Sherlock there is _always_ noise. His thoughts alone are loud enough to deafen innocent bystanders; his sheer _intensity_ as he focuses, stares at some piece of evidence, a clue everyone else has overlooked, a fiery brilliance that leaves no room for _quiet_. Quiet is _boring_, so Sherlock banishes it just by being there.

'I'm going to Baker Street later,' John announces, making the decision suddenly and immediately regretting it. He hasn't been to Baker Street since he smashed the glass and ended up sleeping on Mrs Hudson's sofa – Harry has picked up whatever he's needed, and he has stayed at hers. He doesn't know why he's avoiding the place, really. Maybe it's the quiet. 'I need to make it hospitable again before you wake up – Mrs Hudson's going to kill me if there's still milk in the fridge after a month...'

A month.

A. _Month_.

He holds Sherlock's hand as he speaks, looking mostly at it rather than Sherlock' face, unable to reconcile the image of the man before him with the man he knows, the man he –

He just wants Sherlock to open his eyes and _speak_, even if it's to insult everyone within earshot.

_Please_.

* * *

><p>It's an hour before John leaves, brushing his lips against Sherlock's cheek before walking quickly away, not wanting to give himself a chance to change his mind about going to Baker Street. It's snowing slightly, wispy flakes that flutter in the cold breeze and are only beginning to settle on the ground. Passing open shop doors, John hears familiar music filtering out from tinny speakers and scowls at the reminder that Christmas is only two weeks away.<p>

As his cane more than once threatens to be more of a hindrance than a help on the frozen ground, John abandons his plan to make it on foot to Baker Street and hails a cab instead, struggling to maintain his resolve to return there.

Only one coherent thought reverberates around his mind as he travels; blank web pages.

Blank web pages, a limp, and intermittent tremors in his left hand; just some of the things that seem to define John's life without Sherlock, he thinks, remembering the hours of staring at the laptop screen and willing himself to write something, _anything_, in the little white box in front of him. _Just hit a key. Just type 'hello'. Just say _something. But nothing comes, nothing ever comes.

Besides, he tries to rationalise, his blog seems to be entirely made up of recounting their cases – so it's just on a short break at the moment...no point writing in about nothing, after all...this just means there will be all the more to fill in when Sherlock wakes...

He hasn't paused to consider the possibility of Sherlock not waking up, not really; he hasn't let himself. He _won't_ let himself; there's no point, because it isn't going to happen. Sherlock will be awake any day now...by Christmas, at the latest, he'll be awake...

* * *

><p>Time is slipping past in strange chunks, John thinks, standing before the door of 221b Baker Street. He barely notices sometimes when hours pass him by, or he can feel as though a minute lasts a day. It's been like this for weeks now. Ever since those long hours in the hospital waiting room; he should be used to it, but he still finds it impossibly disorientating.<p>

_Leaning against the wall, laughing and panting after the chase after the taxi, turning at the sound of someone at the door – his cane – Sherlock's warm smile – warm and genuine and _brilliant_..._

He should be opening the door, rather than standing here thinking of anything he can to delay entry. He's being stupid, acting as though Sherlock has – as though Sherlock is going to...he's being _stupid_. He unlocks the door, and climbs the stairs heavily, gritting his teeth –

_Following Sherlock to see the flat for the first time, intrigued by this strange man, curious, but uncertain –_

Nothing has moved since he left. Harry has followed his instructions for once, to the letter; entering, picking up what he has told her to, and leaving, without touching a single thing.

_Books piled everywhere as they try to decipher the sprayed yellow messages, a mess of paper and boxes, Sherlock's frustration and focus. John is tired and he really should sleep but Sherlock isn't stopping and John doesn't want to, either –_

The television screen is gathering dust. It's thick with it now, and a layer covers everything else as well; more proof that the room has been abandoned for weeks.

_Sherlock curled in the chair with his coat wrapped around him, shouting at the television about the turn-ups of someone's jeans. John typing, oblivious to the deception, buying into the lie – _

The first aid kit is still scattered across the floor. Mrs Hudson didn't do much more than pick up what was needed when he kicked it there, not wanting to fuss over the room when he was so close to collapsing from sheer emotional exhaustion...

_His thumb trailing across Sherlock's cheek, Sherlock's pale skin, leaning together, warm breath – _

Everything seems to remind him. Nothing specific, no pattern to the flashbacks; they're just _there_, popping up at the slightest suggestion of something that might jog his memory. Moments of the before while John struggles to comprehend there being an after. For now, he will resolutely remain stuck in the _during,_ until he can stand the thought of what might follow it.

Suddenly, as though receiving an order, he straightens with a deep breath and walks through to the kitchen, looking neither left nor right as though he has blinkers on, grabbing a black bin liner from the drawer and pulling open the fridge door, all without a pause. He's not going to stand around moping; he needs to sort this place out, ready for Sherlock. He drops the milk bottle into the bag without even attempting to open it, does the same for a half-eaten loaf of bread and the cardboard box containing a single, solitary egg.

Two empty pot noodle containers follow them, amongst other detritus littered around the kitchen. John moves carefully so that he doesn't nudge or disturb any of Sherlock's experiments, lifting the bag above his head so that it doesn't collide with the array of delicate looking glass tubes and flasks.

Once he has swept all the rubbish he can find into the bag, he moves to the living room and throws most of the now dusty first aid supplies into it as well, packing what is salvageable back into the box and clipping it shut.

It takes him over three hours to completely raid both rooms, give them a cursory once-over with a duster and wipe the worktops in the kitchen down so they are at least approaching hygienic. By the end, he has a bulging, tied black bin liner and is feeling distinctly grubby himself, but much better for it. Cleaning has kept his mind busy and meant he's had a break from the constant fight against _what ifs_. For a while, he has thought of nothing but what needs to be _done_. He's been able to solve a problem, however minor, which gives him at least some sense of control. Now that he's finished, though, he finds himself at a loss. The what ifs are returning with force, now that he no longer has action to drive them away; he finds himself drifting towards Sherlock's room without thinking.

He stands in the doorway.

Most of Sherlock's belongings are in the living room, so it's relatively empty in here. Sherlock has few hobbies, few if any interests outside his violin and his work, so there is a distinct lack of clutter. His bed is unmade. John assumes Sherlock deems such things boring and unnecessary – much like doing the washing up or the vacuuming. His mouth tugs itself into a small smile without his permission, though he isn't sure what about the thought is amusing...merely somehow...endearing.

Across the covers, thrown back messily on the bed, are Sherlock's torn clothes from after his fall on the ice; John moves towards them dazedly and sinks onto the bed beside them. He realises numbly that the bag is still in his hand and fiddles absently with the knot. He feels a twisting guilt in his stomach as he picks up the ruined trousers, shirt and jacket, and places them almost tenderly on top of the rubbish already threatening to spill from the bin liner.

It feels wrong to be doing this but he reassures himself with the thought that were Sherlock here, he would be doing the same thing anyway. They're just clothes, they don't _mean_ anything. There's no use in keeping them in this state.

But when he picks up the coat, also ripped down the right sleeve, John can't bring himself to even consider throwing it away. He lets go of the plastic bag and runs his fingers over the damaged fibres thoughtfully, feeling the material in his hands. The smell of the coat, faded but still completely, uniquely Sherlock, wafts towards him and he breathes it in deeply.

_Sherlock running – it could be anywhere, he runs so much; after the taxi, after killers, just because he's in a hurry...the coat flaps behind him, whirling dramatically when he turns – _

He sits for a long while, perched on the edge of the bed with the bin liner slumped beside him and the coat in his hands, twisting the course fabric absently. He can't throw it away. It's a good coat, he tells himself, that's why – he can get it fixed somehow, throwing it away would be a waste. He'll get it mended, he promises himself; _it will get fixed_.

He isn't sure what 'it' is referring to anymore.

* * *

><p>'There are nine planets in the Solar System,' John tells Sherlock's hand quietly. He rubs his thumb over the back of it, careful not to touch the needle, thinking of delicate experiments and intricately played violins. He smiles grimly at the thought of what Sherlock would think of his 'conversation' topic; just something to say, anything to say. He remembers Sherlock looking up at the stars, and saying they were beautiful...he doesn't want to know about them, but still...if John must talk about something, why <em>not<em> the Solar System?

Except, he reminds himself firmly, he's getting it wrong already. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate that.

_If I must have these facts, give them to me accurately._

John can almost hear him say it, and quickly corrects himself. The imagined voice makes his chest ache.

'Eight. Sorry, there are eight planets; Pluto was demoted. It's a dwarf now apparently...all the planets orbit the Sun, and the Earth is the third out; Mercury and Venus come before it, then Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. And then Pluto. Not a planet.' He pauses and watches Sherlock closely, raking his eyes over Sherlock's face, his hands, searching for any sign of life or recognition; a twitch, a flicker of his eyelids. His search is as fruitless as he knew it would be, but he cannot help himself.

Thirty three days. If _– when _– Sherlock wakes up...it is becoming less and less likely he will do so without any form of damage. What if he's not the same? What if his mind...John thinks selfishly that he wouldn't care, so long as he is alive and awake, but if Sherlock is no longer...no longer _brilliant_, what will that do to him? Would he be able to live like that?

What if something else is gone? His memory? What if he wakes up and does not recognise John?

It doesn't matter now. John closes the thoughts out firmly and concentrates on what he has to say, determined to keep talking, keep Sherlock aware of his presence on whatever level. Sherlock should know he is here. Nothing else matters at the moment...just being here, and teaching Sherlock about the Solar System. That's all. He takes a deep breath.

'Some of the planets also have moons orbiting them. The Earth's most recognisable satellite is _The _Moon, but it does have others...I can't remember the names, and you aren't interested, so let's skip that bit,'

_Yes, lets. _Sarcastic. That's how Sherlock's voice would sound; sarcastic and bored, but he would probably listen anyway, or pretend to at least until something else caught his attention, even if he would simply delete the information or pick it apart afterwards...

'Umm...Mars has two moons, Deimos and Phobos – that's Greek for terror and fear, by the way. Saturn has seven, but I don't know what they're called...Uranus has five, Neptune has one and Jupiter has four...Jupiter is the biggest planet...'

He talks for over an hour, reciting everything he knows or thinks he knows about the Solar System and probably repeating some of it; by the end his throat is dry and his voice is hoarse from use, but he feels better, somehow, for it. It's...cathartic. Maybe this is the same sort of idea as writing his blog was supposed to be?

Some ten minutes after he has exhausted the topic of the Solar System, a vaguely familiar doctor comes in and greets John automatically, running through the routine checks on Sherlock as John watches. The man is tall – possibly taller than Sherlock, almost bald and with a long nose and fingers. He has small, dark eyes and a constant line between his eyebrows; a permanent frown of concentration. He looks severe, though his voice is gentle, and his demeanour matter of fact and professional. John wonders when he became quite this observant...Sherlock must be rubbing off on him.

'Any change?' says John. He knows the answer will be no, of course, but can't stop himself from asking the question anyway. He's fully expecting the usual practised reply, possibly followed by gentle reassurances not to give up hope. The grave look on the doctor's face makes John's heart sink, and his chest contract with fear.

'No,' Doctor Beckett replies slowly, pausing as though carefully measuring his next words before he speaks them. He gives a small sigh and straightens to face John, whose hand reflexively tightens around Sherlock's. He's holding his breath, gritting his teeth, knowing that's not all; he's heard that every day so far, and never once with that expression on the doctor's face.

'What?' says John eventually, fighting nausea. His eyes are fixed on Beckett. He refuses to let them lower themselves to Sherlock's face; he knows he couldn't stand it right now. 'What's different?'

'Nothing, Doctor Watson,' Beckett assures him.

'Something's different,' John insists stubbornly, 'there's something you aren't telling me. Say it.'

Beckett is silent for another moment, weighing his options and looking at John sympathetically. His eternal frown deepens. So does John's concern.

'Not that it necessarily need be a worry just yet...'

'Just tell me.'

'Well Doctor Watson, you are a medical man, I'm sure understand...it has been over a month since –'

'Only just,' John interrupts, for some reason needing to assert this fact. _No, no, no, no – he's not saying this, he's not saying it, he's not saying it, it's not true_ –

'Nevertheless,' another pause. John hates how drawn out this is being made; part of him wants Beckett to turn around and leave now without another word. Another part wants it said quickly, so that it's over and out. So they are no longer dancing around the issue, significant looks and unsaid concerns floating in the air between him and everyone else because no one dare say what they're all thinking...

'I think we ought to begin considering the possibility that Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness.'

And there it is. It's said. It doesn't echo in John's ears; it falls flat in the air, and for all the reaction he gives John could be deaf to it.

But he's not. Oh, God, he's not, and he wishes he were. It settles like a rock, like a _mountain_, in his chest, compressing his lungs like an anvil. A complete dead weight stopping him breathing; he's heavy with it, literally unable to do anything more than stare.

_Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness._

'You –' John begins, but the word dies in his throat and all that comes out is a sort of incomprehensible squeak. He swallows and tries again, dizzy. 'You don't know that,' he says. It isn't what he planned to say. He doesn't know _what_ he planned to say, but it's what comes out, and he finds himself desperately grasping at it as his only hope. It's not true, it can't be true...they can't really be thinking...but hasn't everyone been? Hasn't _he_? Doesn't he _know_, medically, the likelihood of every outcome already? Thinking the words in the back of his mind though, and ignoring them, is quite different to having to hear them out loud, hear them spoken in such grave tones. 'People wake up after years sometimes,' he insists dumbly.

_Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness._

'As I said, it's not something you need to necessarily be concerned with precisely at the present time, but it should be remembered that –'

'Shouldn't you be having this conversation with his brother? He's family, I'm just...this isn't...it isn't my place to discuss this.' _I don't want to discuss this. I can't. I _won't_._

'I have already spoken to Mr Holmes's brother; he has told us in no uncertain terms that any medical decision regarding his brother's treatment or welfare is to go through you.'

'He didn't say – anything else? He didn't...' _didn't argue? Didn't tell you to stop being stupid; that of course Sherlock's far too stubborn to let this happen? He didn't even object?_ Somehow, Mycroft agreeing on the subject makes it even worse.

'I was told simply that all information was to be passed to you, and that you were trusted explicitly to make any necessary decisions.'

_Necessary decisions_.

John looks towards the ventilator, just for a second. He knows what that means. He feels sick.

'I'm not making any – you don't know that he won't wake up. You don't know.'

'Doctor Watson, I'm telling you that it is a consideration which needs to be made, not that you need to do anything yet. It has been over a month. You know the prognosis. You need to be prepared for the worst.'

'Only a month,' says John distantly. He realises that his grip on Sherlock's hand is painfully tight and forces himself to loosen it, but refuses to let go. 'You just said it. There's still time.'

'I know that,' he assures John gently, 'but please; be realistic. You are a doctor. You know the facts.'

But facts don't apply to Sherlock – Sherlock doesn't _follow _rules and predictions, he isn't _like_ other people. What is true for them is not necessarily true for Sherlock – he does nothing else like the rest of the population, why should this be any different to that? Predictability is boring and pedestrian; two things Sherlock could never be, even if he had the inclination to try.

'I know Sherlock,' he says, and understands now the position of patients in the face of medical jargon, prognoses, truths. They don't always hold; they aren't the whole picture. They can't be, just because if they are, it isn't only Sherlock who will not wake from this nightmare.

'He may never wake up, Doctor Watson. I am truly sorry, but you need to face that fact. And even if he does...really I am sorry.'

'He will wake up.'

'Doctor Watson –'

'He _will_.'

* * *

><p><strong>Quick note regarding medical detail since it was brought up by a reader (thanks, by the way, I probably should have done this earlier!) and I thought I should address it. Firstly, I'm not a doctor, so it's likely to be inaccurate and you might have to just suspend disbelief sometimes I'm afraid! Sorry. Secondly, I do at least know enough to realise that John's actions in the taxi were inappropriate, but they're <strong>_**supposed**_** to be. Bear in mind he's just been in an accident too – he's probably got concussion, he's definitely in shock, and he's all but watching Sherlock die in front of him. Even doctors are allowed to go off the rails a bit sometimes.**

**As ever, thank you for all feedback, keep it coming it really is helpful, and thank you for your patience! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: Bit of a language warning again. I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, it was very difficult to write, but I hope you like it; as always, feedback is welcome regardless!**

Beckett regards John for a long moment in what John can't help but feel is a very patronising manner. Then he nods and leaves without another word. John doesn't look at Sherlock for over a minute. He stares instead at the spot Beckett just vacated, entirely unable to accept what he has heard.

_Mr Holmes will not regain consciousness._

_...Necessary decisions_.

Decisions he is expected to make, but he can't – how can they expect him to say –? Do they really think that he'll just – just give up? On _Sherlock_? Not just now, but _ever_? What does it matter to him how long he has to wait for Sherlock to wake up? Because he will; John knows he will.

And the doctors...the doctors are one thing.

Mycroft is quite another. Mycroft knows Sherlock, he has to understand that things are _different_ for him; he can't be just...accepting this. Can he?

_I have already spoken to Mr Holmes's brother…medical decisions…through you._

Through him...everything is to go through him. Mycroft isn't even getting _involved_? He isn't even showing an interest in his own sibling? Suddenly John is furious. Anger coils itself in his chest like a snake as he fumes at what he can't help but see as Mycroft's treachery; his betrayal.

'I'll be back soon,' John tells Sherlock quietly. He finally manages to settle his eyes momentarily on Sherlock's still form, reluctantly letting go of his hand and swallowing, picking up his cane and limping from the room. He ignores the various glances from the nurses; tells himself he is imagining that they are full of pity, but he can't help but feel angrier with every step. By the time he's stood outside the hospital door, he rams his hand into his pocket for his phone with such force he almost tears the stitching. He punches in Mycroft's number and paces as he listens to it ring.

'Pick up, pick up, pick up...' It rings and rings, and Mycroft does not answer. 'Damnit, pick up your phone!' He shouts into it, earning himself nervous looks from passers-by. He barely notices, doesn't care, breathing as though he has just run a marathon. He quickens his step, wearing a line in the pavement as he pivots every few strides and walks back over the same spot, gripping the phone and staring at the ground, muttering under his breath.

The ringing stops; answer phone kicks in. John swears loudly, jams the hang up button so hard it hurts and redials.

'Answer the phone Mycroft. Answer your _fucking_ phone!'

There's a click, and the ringing stops.

'Doctor Watson,' Mycroft says smoothly, 'to what do I owe this pleasure? I'm sure it must be quite urgent, I'm afraid I'm rather busy at the moment.' Mycroft's indifferent tone only serves to infuriate John further, and he has difficulty keeping his anger in check.

'I'm sure,' he says through gritted teeth, 'so busy you can't even take the time off to realise that your brother is in a _coma_?' Though his mind still offers the customary argument of _no, he's not, he's not in a coma, he's not_…

'I assure you, John, I had not forgotten.' His tone is still polite, but there is a veiled danger to it now that John can't help but recognise; it does nothing to calm him down, though.

'You could have fooled me,' he says, equally dangerously. There's a brief silence on the other end of the line.

'May I ask what you are talking about, John? I –'

'I'm talking about you not giving a _damn_ about it, that's what I'm talking about! So much for your _constant concern_ –'

People are definitely staring now, but John is impervious to it. All his energy and attention is on Mycroft, and his utter disbelief that the man could be so stunningly indifferent to his brother.

'Stop there, Doctor Watson,' the veil has gone; Mycroft is definitely angry now. John feels a savage pleasure at the thought of breaking the barriers of the elder Holmes, not intimidated in the slightest even though he knows he probably should be. 'Do you think for a second that I am _not_ concerned for Sherlock?'

'Well, now you mention it; yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. Yes.'

'And why would that be?' Again, he's cool and calculating. The switch wrong-foots John for a split second but he quickly rights himself, determined to get his point across.

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe I just expected someone who actually cared to be here. Maybe I thought as his brother you might want to hear what the doctors have to say. I don't know, I'm probably wrong, but I would have thought your concern extended to listening when they start talking about him not waking up. About making _necessary decisions_ – and you aren't even here to make them. You just bump them on to me – you're _far_ too busy to get involved...'

'John –' he's so angry he misses the sudden gentleness to Mycroft's voice.

'They're talking about turning off the machines, Mycroft! And you told them to come to me. You expect me to deal with this and you can't even be bothered to listen to the fact that your brother might be _dying_ –'

Mycroft doesn't interrupt, but John stops, horrified.

_Dying_.

That's the first time he's said that. The first time he's even acknowledged it as a possibility; with that single word all the fury, all the energy, drains out of him completely and he stops pacing. He stands totally still with his heart pounding in his ears. The city roars around him, carrying on as ever and leaving him standing wide eyed with shock at his own words. He moves dazedly towards the wall and leans against it, his legs unable to support him properly, closing his eyes. He feels heavy and empty at the same time, reeling with the shock.

'John,' this time he doesn't miss the genuine concern in Mycroft's tone, and guilt settles itself on him, weighing him down even more on top of the force of his outburst. All the fight has gone. 'I apologise. Do you imagine I suspected for an instant that you would make the decision to switch off the machines?' He takes John's complete silence for his answer, and continues, 'really, I thought you would appreciate some measure of control, and I truly cannot be away from work for very long. I had complete faith that you would make the right decision.'

Still, silence.

'John?' Now, Mycroft sounds almost doubtful. John holds the phone weakly, unable to speak. '_Did_ you consider it?' He waits, this time, for John to reply.

'No,' John says, quietly but with complete conviction.

'Then we are in agreement.'

* * *

><p>John doesn't return to Sherlock once he has hung up. He stays leaning against the wall outside, people still giving him a wide berth and casting him concerned looks. He takes deep, calming breaths and tries to work up the energy to move, holding the mobile loosely by his side with his eyes closed.<p>

He listens to the city around him; drinks it in without trying to unpick it...he doesn't identify one noise from another, doesn't even try to differentiate. He simply lets the rhythm wash over like a heartbeat. There are pounding footsteps, voices, shouting. He can hear cars, dogs, bikes; a slammed door…even the pigeons dodging between people's feet as they rush across the pavement in front of him. It all rolls into one sound as it reaches his ears...

It lets him disconnect for a while, but he has to come back eventually and opens his eyes reluctantly to see the source of the noises. Everything moving so quickly past him; all entirely unaffected by Sherlock's absence.

That's the problem with this scene, though John doesn't even have the energy to be angry about it anymore. These people, they don't _know_; they don't know how much they _are_ affected by this – how much Sherlock Holmes has probably already changed their lives without them even noticing. All the crimes solved and criminals caught, and all those that won't be if he doesn't wake up. They _don't know_, and worse, they don't _care_...it makes John want to scream, to shout and _make_ them see. It also makes him want to hide and just sleep until this is all over.

Every single one of them, the whole city, all of it has been influenced by Sherlock and hardly anyone even gives a _damn_, they just carry on while Sherlock stops – how _can_ they?

A soldier; a police officer...when one is injured or killed it makes headlines, and people stand up and they _notice_. It might not change the way they live, it might not make them feel anything more than a passing sorrow or anger at the situation, but at least they know. It's never enough, not to John, but it's _something_. Sherlock should have that.

* * *

><p>Sometimes, the fog in Sherlock's mind lifts itself a little. He still can't make himself move. He still can't make sense of his situation, but sometimes at least he is aware of <em>something<em>; something more than drifting, disconnected thoughts that aren't even fully formed.

This heightened alertness is almost always accompanied by a sound. He can't identify the sound, can't manage to glean any sort of meaning from it whatsoever; it's just _there_. He doesn't know what it is or where it comes from, or why it sometimes goes away. He especially doesn't know why it seems so inextricably linked to the ordering of his thoughts, like it focuses them somehow. But it's...familiar. He knows the sound, which makes it all the more frustrating that he can't work out what it is.

With as much self-awareness as he can muster, he dreads the moments when the sound goes away, because then things make even less sense. He hates being at a loss like this, but he's beginning to forget there ever being a time when he wasn't...things have always been this way, surely? Whatever _this way_ is...what else is there?

Where does the sound come from? Why does he want it to come back? It's here now, and Sherlock desperately tries to unravel it, recognise it; memorise it so that when it goes away he won't be so lost again. If he can recall it into the silence then maybe he will be able to think then, too?

For some reason the blackness has receded, just a little, and there are little glowing spots of soft light around. He can't touch them, can't do anything more than look, because he isn't entirely certain he's actually a physical thing himself right now...but they look nice, he decides. They come from the sound, he's sure of it, or the sound comes from them or something, he doesn't know. But they are connected somehow...the same kind of familiarity is stirred by the lights as the sound...

Little round globes and little soft lights, almost like stars, and a distant, muffled, muddled noise. They are all that he has apart from darkness, and he clings to them; anything to tether himself in reality, in something that makes _sense_. The longer they stay, he is positive, the closer he will come to working out this mystery and finding a way out of wherever he is...

There's another sound too, for a while. One he doesn't recognise, and instantly doesn't like...but as long as the first sound stays then it's alright, he can still think, still try and identify them. His mind is still active and working, not falling into terrible stagnation...

Then they both go away. The glowing orbs fade and there's just the murkiness of everything and nothing. There's nothing to keep him focus; there's no sound anymore to bring some small measure of clarity to him. He's fading too; his sharpening senses are dulled again and he's in silence, blind...he can't concentrate, can't _think_...and why is that familiar, too? He doesn't know, because his brain isn't _working_ without the sound here...

* * *

><p>Forty-two days since the accident. Nine days since his conversation with Doctor Beckett.<p>

It's the rhythm, John decides.

Kick, pull, breathe.

Simple, practically instinctive; he's not sure what made him try it really but it works, at least for a while, so he's glad of whatever it was that made him make the decision to take up swimming.

Harry, he thinks. Maybe it was Harry. She said he needed a distraction, and this is as good as any.

He reaches out and brushes his hand against the tiled wall, flipping in the water and reversing direction smoothly, kicking back towards the other end without a pause. His muscles are just beginning to ache, and he pushes himself harder – he won't stop yet, he's not tired enough yet...

While he's in the water, he doesn't have to think. He concentrates on actions, on cutting through the water as quickly as he can, timing himself, counting, trying to out-do his own records; one length, two, ten, fifty, a hundred. How many seconds does it take him to reach the other side? Turn, kick, breathe; try again, faster this time – a hundred and fifty, two hundred – still more, come on; kick, pull, breathe, kick – hit the wall, turn – pull, breathe, kick.

Don't let the thoughts in, not any of them, it doesn't matter what they're about. Just focus on swimming, focus on _actions_.

Ten lengths away from his record – he'll beat it today, easily, he's not that tired – not yet, not enough – he needs to do more, needs to wear himself out...

If he does enough, if he exhausts himself far enough with the swimming, he doesn't dream, or at the very least he doesn't remember them. If nothing else he is determined he should have that freedom. He should be able to have the escape of sleep still open to him.

He checks the large plastic clock hung high on the wall at the opposite side of the pool; only half an hour until closing – will that be enough? He swims faster, determined to deplete his energy before his time runs out. He didn't swim for long enough yesterday...he won't make that mistake again today, won't let himself dream again...

The only downside to denying himself dreams is that when he does make that mistake – when he isn't quite tired enough – they come back worse than ever. They're so vivid he can barely distinguish them from his real memories when he wakes up, and has to check his hands to make sure they really _aren't_ covered in blood. He has to go straight to the hospital just to see, just to make sure, that Sherlock is there, and it was all in his head.

They aren't even all about the accident – at least, not to start with. Sometimes they aren't even about Sherlock. Sometimes he returns to his dreams of Afghanistan and wakes with gunfire in his ears. But they are all so _loud_, so _real_…he can hear the brakes and the explosions. He can see the sand and the twisted metal, he can smell the _blood_; even once his eyes are open, the images linger.

Kick, pull, breathe.

Twenty minutes left – come on, swim faster, kick harder, don't dream again...

_The weight on his chest is heavy – he doesn't doubt that the explosives are real, and he _really_ doesn't doubt that Moriarty will gladly set them off at the slightest provocation _–

No, don't think; no memories, no dreams, no nightmares, not here. They aren't allowed here. Here it's just movement, it's water and voices echoing off the ceiling, it's the smell of chlorine and it's sore muscles, it's not thought –

_But he's trapped in them, there's no way out for him...Sherlock, though, Sherlock could escape, he could run if only John could find a way to – _

No, not that one, especially not that one – reaching the wall again, John kicks off and shoots forwards in the water, pulling ahead determinedly – fifteen minutes –

He shakes his head and dives, revelling in the quiet of the water pressing in around him, muffling the shouts from above. He closes his eyes, but not against the sting of the water. Complete darkness, distant sounds – no breath means no smell...isolation. Total isolation...

He swims until his lungs ache and his muscles burn for oxygen and he can't stand it any longer, bursting through the surface of the water with a splash and gulping in the air with great, heaving gasps.

He beats his record and then some before the lifeguard calls that the pool is closing and he's forced to climb out and head towards the changing rooms. He hopes he has done enough to avoid the dreams tonight.

* * *

><p><em>John can't breathe. <em>

_His chest is bursting, his head spinning, and he can't _breathe_. He claws instinctively at the water but forgets everything he's ever known about swimming, relying on pure desperate instinct and his choking need for oxygen, for air, for light. He's sinking deeper or else falling unconscious; the blackness at the edge of his vision is growing. Everything is blurry and his eyes sting from the water. There's so _much_ of it..._

_One moment like treacle, so thick he can barely move, the next thin as air and nothing to push against. He can't get any purchase on it, reaching for something, anything to hold on to…he kicks and pulls and he'd be _screaming_ if he just had the breath or the energy. No energy left to fight it; there's light above him. Light and beautiful, wonderful, essential oxygen…but he can't reach it. He'll never reach it...his muscles are weak and giving up. No matter how hard he pushes them, his kicks are slowing down, losing their strength..._

_But _no_ – he just needs air, that's all, one breath, one lungful. He fights the urge to inhale, the water pressing, suffocating around him; it has never felt so wet and that's all he can think of. It's so _wet_ and he needs something dry and clear, but there's nothing. Nothing to grab onto, to pull himself to the surface, and he must have been down here hours..._

_He's falling now, definitely falling deeper. His arms and legs aren't heeding his commands anymore, they won't move, and it's getting dark..._

_There _is_ something, something far, far above him, too far. A hand, a pale hand is reaching for him, and he tells his arm to move, to reach back, but it won't. He hears distantly a shout, and it's familiar, but he can't hear what it's saying. Don't they know he can't hear them? The water, how is he supposed to listen when he's underwater?_

_He should have hit the bottom by now, but there is no bottom. He just keeps sinking, further and further from the air and he wonders vaguely if he really is going to drown, but he can't really feel anything about it. Somehow it doesn't scare him..._

_The hand is so close, inches away...and then so far, he can hardly see it anymore, much too far...he swipes half-heartedly at the water in front of him but his fingers meet nothing but liquid..._

_The shouting is dimming now, fading to nothing – and then loud again, loud and close and – _

* * *

><p>'You are dreaming, Doctor Watson, wake up.'<p>

John wakes up gasping for air, gulping it in frantically and forcing the quilt away, its weight suddenly suffocating.

He doesn't recognise the voice, and doesn't turn his head to see its owner. He doesn't even notice that whoever it is, is standing uninvited in the middle of his room at two o'clock in the morning and telling him to wake up as though it's noon.

He only knows that he didn't swim enough.

He's more tired now than when he went to sleep, but forces himself to take slower, deeper breaths and blink away the image of the pale hand reaching for him, ignoring the panicked shouts he couldn't answer. Finally he looks at the intruder.

It's Mycroft.

'What are you – is it Sherlock?' Instantly wide awake, John stares at Mycroft urgently as he awaits the answer, panic coiling nauseatingly inside him, 'is something wrong? Has something happened? What's –?'

Mycroft holds up a hand to silence him, his face expressionless.

'Mycroft, tell me –'

A soft, genuine smile begins to tug at the corners of Mycroft's mouth.

'He's awake.'

John's eyes widen. His heart skips a beat, then doubles pace to make up for it. His ears are ringing; he didn't hear right, he can't have –

'He – what? He's – are you –?'

'Please don't ask me if I am serious, John, it would be most insulting. Yes,' he says, the warmest John has ever seen him, 'Sherlock is awake. And asking very specifically for you.'

'He's – asking for me?' It won't sink in. He can't believe it, can't process the thought. It pounds in his head repetitively but doesn't connect with anything enough to make him _feel_ it properly. Something like relief is beginning to seep through, making him lightheaded. Something like joy, like _jubilation_, but so much stronger –

'_Yes_. He is most insistent. Shall we?'


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Still no owning of Sherlock.**

**AN: As always, a huge thank you to reviewers and especially to prettybirdy979, who is an invaluable beta!**

John throws on his clothes without thinking and ends up with only one sock and his grey woolly jumper inside out, but he couldn't care less even as he climbs clumsily after Mycroft into the waiting black car. Its sleek interior would make him feel out of place at the best of times, but it doesn't even register now.

Less than ten minutes have passed since he opened his eyes to Mycroft standing in his bedroom at two in the morning but already John is more awake than he has ever been. He feels as though he has downed at least ten cups of coffee and cannot keep still, fidgeting constantly in his seat. His leg bounces jarringly and he taps his finger on the doorframe in time with its staccato rhythm, radiating impatience.

It doesn't seem real, and part of John's mind keeps telling him that it isn't, and he's still asleep. The rest knows better. His slumber _never_ offers him anything like this, only nightmares and replays of hellish memories, but he still can't accept it. Not until he sees Sherlock with his own eyes. Something is holding back relief until he does, but he can feel it pressing in on him. It's suffocating; terrible and wonderful at the same time because he _daren't_ believe it, but he is desperate to.

Mycroft, by contrast, is so utterly still that John can barely see him breathing.

_He's awake._

No more talk of necessary decisions, no more swimming himself into exhaustion, no more choking back memories of Sherlock's blood – no grey, monotonous streets. Even now in the mid-December pre-dawn darkness, everything is so much more _alive_ than it has been in weeks. The decorations no longer look garish and ugly, but tasteful; the dancing colours cast a soft glow over his face as he peers out of the window at them. The ice is not bleak and black, but glitters like crystals under the twinkling decorations.

He doesn't have his cane. He almost laughs at the thought; considering how much pain it causes when it decides to, he can forget about his leg very easily when the situation calls for it. He considers simply throwing the cane away, and sees for an instant the smile on Sherlock's face when Angelo returned it to him –

Awake, awake, Sherlock is _awake_, asking for him - _he is most insistent _–

His manic, chaotic train of thought judders to a halt abruptly. His chest constricts with guilt like a physical pain; Sherlock, asking for him, Sherlock waking; alone in the hospital. Sherlock confused or disoriented or just plain annoyed to find himself confined to a single room; angry or afraid or any number of things. Suddenly, John realises that Mycroft has not given him any idea what to expect, and worry coils itself uncomfortably inside him.

'Mycroft,' he starts – it comes out as more of a croak and John clears his throat before trying again. 'How is he?' he manages to ask uncertainly, feeling that he probably should have spoken before now. They are almost at the hospital, and fear is overtaking relief in its battle to permeate John's defences.

Mycroft turns to face John, his face unreadable, and affects his own version of a tiny shrug, which he manages to make appear as neat and carefully planned as everything else about his person. 'There seems to be no permanent damage, if that is what you're asking. He began to show signs of waking up not long after you left yesterday afternoon –' he forestalls John's indignant interruption with a raised hand. 'You were not called because at that point it was far from certain he would regain full consciousness, which he has now had for just over an hour. His speech and movement are rapidly improving though still causing him some frustration. His memory seems almost intact, excepting a few understandable lapses. He's very irritable, though I have assured the doctors that this is hardly something to be concerned over.'

'That's it?' asks John, finding himself smiling – a little muddled, a little clumsy? He feels bad for the relief the news causes, knowing how infuriating these normal human inadequacies will be for Sherlock, but he can't help it. 'That's all?' His logical brain is demanding _how how how_? In a voice that sounds rather like Sherlock. His heart is screaming _I don't care_! So loudly he's surprised Mycroft can't hear.

'That is all, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft replies, his expression softening, 'Sherlock is as stubborn as ever, and I doubt he is going to let something like this keep him incapacitated for long.'

* * *

><p>Mycroft's pace is quick, but to John every step seems to take an age. He forces himself not to start sprinting, maintaining a speed that keeps him level with the elder Holmes as they move through the near empty corridors of the hospital. John does not spare a glance for the few people they do pass, does not even register whether they are patients or doctors. He has to concentrate to keep his breathing level and prevent himself marching ahead of Mycroft.<p>

After what feels like hours, John sees the now all too familiar door to Sherlock's room (a private one; Mycroft's doing, presumably. Why has it never occurred to him before?). He doesn't realise he has broken into a run until he feels his palm make contact with it, hard, and hears it crash open, bouncing off the wall. Even now he doesn't slow down, doesn't even stop to really see Sherlock properly, he doesn't even _think_. He just rushes forwards and crushes his lips against Sherlock's.

'You – if you –' he mutters between kisses, both hands tangled in Sherlock's hair and pressing him closer. Sherlock's right arm curls automatically around John's back as he reciprocates, the left one squashed between them strapped in a sling. John relishes the feeling of warmth the touch causes; the sheer, overwhelming reality finally washing over him in waves so that his knees literally go weak. He has to sit on the edge of Sherlock's bed to prevent himself collapsing. It's real, it's real, it's real – he's awake; he's here, _alive_ and breathing for himself, moving, pulling John towards him...

It's with enormous reluctance that they eventually give in to the need for oxygen and break apart. John keeps the distance between them to no more than a few inches as he whispers urgently, 'don't you _ever_ – don't you _dare_ – do that again. Do you understand?' and _God_ he's alive – not just Sherlock, but John, he's _alive_, he's awake, he's not drowning anymore –

'I'll do my best,' replies Sherlock in a low voice. It sounds like forming the words is an effort, as though it costs him more concentration that it ought to. His eyes are clear and focused, though; there's no confusion in his expression, and so what if his speech is mildly slurred? The sound of it, the sight of his smile, almost causes John to lose the last of his composure.

There's a noise behind them, and John glances around to see Mycroft nod politely at them as he pulls the door closed, after ushering the doctor out in front of him. John turns back to Sherlock and opens his mouth, but Sherlock gets there first.

His eyes travel intently over John's face, taking in every detail and cataloguing them, drinking them in hungrily. 'Oh, don't be so predickable. Predickable. _Pre – dic – ta – ble_.' He corrects himself slowly, scowling his displeasure at the mistake. John's brow creases in confusion.

'I'm sorry?'

'Guilt,' Sherlock clarifies, 'it's pointless, un – un_founded_ and boring.'

'Sorry,' says John, and means it. Sherlock rolls his eyes, but there's no real malice in the expression. There's a long, uncomfortable pause, before John mutters 'I just kept thinking...you know...if I had been sat in your place, then –'

'Don't,' Sherlock interrupts forcefully, forgetting to concentrate on the word so it comes out even sharper than he intended, 'just don't.'

He wants to tell John, he needs John to know – he doesn't even understand _why_ John should know, he simply ought to...that now Sherlock has worked out what the sound was. The one that kept him tethered to reality and drew him back across whatever veil kept him lost before. He doesn't know why he never realised because the answer is so painfully, completely obvious. Because of _course_ it was John. It is always John.

But he cannot think how to phrase it, so he settles instead for raising his eyebrows and saying slowly, so very carefully, determined not to mess up any of the words; 'did you know that there are eight planets in the Solar System?'

And he can tell, by the look on John's face, that he understands, even when his only reply is to smile and tell Sherlock, 'nine, if you count Pluto.'

* * *

><p>It's a day since Sherlock woke up. Despite their apparent lenience when he first regained consciousness, the doctors are being frustratingly insistent about visiting hours. Much as he is loathed to accept Mycroft's help most of the time, Sherlock wishes his brother would intervene.<p>

It's dark. And quiet; Sherlock doesn't like it.

He can see vague shapes around him, but his surroundings are split into varying shades of grey, broken only by the little blinking lights of the machines that sit either side of the bed. One bleeps constantly. He can hear distant voices from outside of his room, but they are little more than murmurs. He can't make out individual words, though he entertains himself for a while trying to work out what the conversations are about by the tones used.

Of course, it isn't a very useful experiment, as he has no way of testing his conclusions, but it keeps him reassured that he isn't slipping back into the nothingness again. It's foolish, he knows, but every time he closes his eyes and feels the darkness pulling at the edge of his senses...it's uncomfortably similar to _before_. He can't even focus on improving his speech or dexterity; though he has been assured both will come in time he has never been very good at waiting, and why should he have to?

Blink. Bleep. Muffled footsteps; a hurried conversation. A phone ringing and something squeaking – a wheel? Someone in a wheelchair, then, or on a gurney, being taken past...a wheelchair, Sherlock decides, based on the pattern of the sound. It takes him much too long to work out, and his mind drifts vaguely in the meantime. He can't quite seem to concentrate. One person accompanying them, elderly, judging by the slightly shuffling, slow pace – someone small, the footsteps are not heavy...

Blink. Bleep. More indistinct voices. A question; an answer. Buzzing silence...

Blink. Bleep. Laughter, somewhere. Clicking heels. An exclamation. Another phone call. A lull in activity then a baby crying, quickly soothed. The squeaking wheelchair on its return journey. A door opening nearby, then closing sharply. Hurried footsteps, and quiet again...

Blink. Bleep...

Darkness deepening...twisting somehow, shadows taking shape around him...

Blink...bleep...

Swirling...the noises of the hospital seem to fade, still there, on the fringe of his senses, but not registering as strongly as before...a drifting feeling; light, and not unpleasant...

Blink...

Emptiness.

He can't take stock of his surroundings, because there _are_ no surroundings. He doesn't appear to be touching anything, even...doesn't even appear to be a thing himself, he just...exists...as thought, or as...he doesn't know.

Sherlock looks down, except he isn't entirely certain what down is anymore, and sees...nothing. He tries to turn upwards, but might not move at all, his eyes are greeted by the same all around...not even shapes and outlines, not even _darkness_, just...a void.

He tries to move his arms and only now realises that he _does_ have a physical body, and that it's trapped, though he can't feel anything binding him in place. There are no cuffs, ropes or restraints; he simply can't make himself move. He tries to call out but his voice won't work either and when he attempts to remember how he got here, he finds his memory a confusing jumble of images and sounds that don't make sense.

He strains his eyes and still sees nothing, so listens hard instead...

There – _there_! There is something, there _must_ be something, he can hear it – a murmur, somewhere close...but no, it's too far away at the same time. Distance means nothing here, but Sherlock knows now that there is _something_ there. If it's there, he can find it, and if he can find it, he can get out of here –

Then the sound becomes louder, stronger. Still Sherlock cannot identify the words, but he feels warmer now...he hadn't even realised he was cold. Suddenly the sound brings meaning with it, wafts through the non-space like wind and bathes Sherlock in the feeling of a _presence_, neither sight nor sounds nor smells but knowledge of a familiar identity. He latches onto it desperately, trying to call out, trying to scream for help…but he's still trapped, stuck here. Stuck _again_. The presence is leaving – but no, it can't leave, it_ mustn't _leave, he needs it, he _needs_ it, he needs John...

* * *

><p>When John walks into the room and sees Sherlock sleeping, he smiles, knowledge that it is natural sleep quickly dampening the familiar heavy feeling that has accompanied the sight of the detective for the past six weeks. It's good to see Sherlock rest and know that he will wake up.<p>

But as he draws closer, concern rises in his chest – Sherlock is not twisting or crying out, but his features are set in a deep frown and a thin sheen of sweat coats his forehead. Belatedly, John notices the vice-like grip Sherlock's right hand has on the sheets. Without pausing to think he rushes forwards to ease the cloth from Sherlock's fist and replace it with his own hand, using the other to nudge the detective's shoulder sharply.

'Sherlock! Wake up, it's okay –'

Sherlock's eyes open abruptly and dart around the room for a split second before resting on John's face. His whole body seems to relax, and his painful grip on John's fingers loosens.

'Are you –?'

'I'm f – fine,' Sherlock assures him quietly, stumbling a little over the words.

'You were dreaming...'

'And now I'm 'wake – I'm _a_wake.' He pushes himself clumsily into a sitting position, blinking and squinting against the light.

'What were you dreaming about?' John asks tentatively. Sherlock scowls.

'Nothing,' he replies,

'Sherlock –'

'Really, _nothing_,' Sherlock assures him. Oddly he is being entirely literal, and yet John does not believe him, though he lets the subject drop with an exasperated sigh and sits down heavily in the plastic chair beside the bed.

'So how are you feeling?' John tries, deciding that the topic is best left alone for now.

'Bored,' Sherlock answers immediately, giving the door a venomous glare as though in the hope that a doctor might come through it and discharge him if he only wills it hard enough. 'Hosp – hospitals are dull.'

'And necessary,' John interjects, failing badly at hiding his smile before sobering up and continuing quietly, 'you've no idea how close you came to...' he trails off, unable to complete the sentence. Sherlock sniffs impatiently,

'Yes, well, I'm 'wake now, and I do wish the doctors would re – realise that I am perfeckly fine so I can get out of here and go back to the – to – go home,' he finishes, frowning.

'The flat,' John tells Sherlock gently, well aware that he treads a fine line between being comforting and being patronising. It's painful to see Sherlock, normally so articulate, struggling like this, but the knowledge of how much worse it could be keeps him from feeling too bad. Sherlock looks thoughtful. Or irritated – or both, it's difficult to tell, then abruptly changes the subject.

'So did Lestrade catch Epps, or not?'

It takes John, wrong-footed by the sudden change of topic, a moment to catch up, and the impatience in Sherlock's face should irritate him but instead he welcomes it, revelling in its return.

'What? Epps – oh! Not yet, no. But there haven't been any more deaths either; he's well and truly disappeared.'

'Nobody just disappears...' Sherlock mutters slowly. The chase on the ice seems a lifetime ago now. John finds himself watching Sherlock with a mixture of concern and the child-like fascination he still can't help but feel every time he sees the deductive process in action. Concern overrides fascination.

'Don't even think about getting involved in a case this soon,' John commands firmly, 'you've barely woken up.'

'I might just slip un – _un – con – scious_ again from boredom if I don't have work. Is that what you want?' he whines petulantly,

'Oh, I'm sure you'll find something to do,' a gleam enters John's eyes, 'I haven't decorated the flat for Christmas yet.'

Sherlock groans.

* * *

><p>Despite his many obvious social inadequacies, it's surprisingly easy to laugh with Sherlock. This is exactly what John is doing when Mycroft pushes the door of the hospital room open, but as much as his smile is contagious, so is the lack of it, and John's face falls almost as quickly as Sherlock's. Their hands are still casually linked, though – until Lestrade follows the elder Holmes into the room and John pulls away. Sherlock doesn't stop him, but a tiny crease appears on his forehead.<p>

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, and John, hoping he is not being nearly as obvious as he feels like he is, shoots him a look that says very firmly not to comment on it.

'Lestrade,' says Sherlock, pointedly ignoring his brother, who rolls his eyes.

'Good to see you awake,' the Detective Inspector nods politely, a small, genuine smile on his face. Sherlock is more interested in whatever he is holding, whether by chance or on purpose, behind his back.

'Thank you – but what are you really here for?' John and Lestrade exchange a look that lacks its usual exasperation as the latter moves forwards and hand Sherlock a thin, official looking file. Sherlock's speech is even slower and more careful than has become usual, now someone other than John is listening.

'Thought you might be interested in this,' Lestrade says, 'it's the report on the crash. Nothing in there to suggest anything more than an accident, there's no mystery or anything, but I figured you'd appreciate something to look over while you're in here anyway.' He casts a sideways glance at Mycroft, which if Sherlock catches, he ignores. Judging by the slightly wary expression on Lestrade's face, John assumes the offering was Mycroft's idea.

Sherlock is already flicking through the few pages present with an air of complete indifference. John can't help but wince at the sight of the crushed, twisted metal in the photographs and averts his eyes, but glances towards Lestrade and mouths _thank you_ all the same. He is fairly certain that for however short a time this keeps Sherlock occupied, it will be at least a few minutes less of them both being driven insane by the detective's incurable boredom. Besides, Sherlock will probably demand to see it eventually anyway. They might as well get it over with.

'And Mycroft, why are you here?' Sherlock asks finally without looking up from the file, as though realising that simply refusing to acknowledge his brother's presence is not going to make him disappear.

'Merely to enquire after your well-being,' Mycroft replies coolly, a mild expression on his face,

'Why don't you just ask one of your s – your surv – your people watching us?' Lestrade's eyes flicker momentarily to John, who widens his own in a silent plea not to mention the slip. Sherlock's free hand grips the sheets tightly in frustration, but he gives no other outward sign of distress.

'I am concerned, Sherlock. Why is that so difficult for you to believe?'

Sherlock huffs moodily in reply, still not looking up from the file on his lap.

'I'll – err – be going, then?' Lestrade interjects uncomfortably, gesturing towards the door. Sherlock waves a hand impatiently and John smiles in gratitude as Lestrade starts towards the door, then pauses. 'I am glad you're recovering, Sherlock,' he adds, almost as an afterthought. Sherlock glances up, seems uncertain what to say in response, and nods tightly.

'Whether you choose to believe it or not, I hope you get well soon,' Mycroft lingers for several moments, then with a small sigh of frustration, follows Lestrade. Sherlock doesn't seem to notice their exit and remains focused on the file, having found a photograph apparently of particular interest to him, which he is now rotating and squinting at.

John knows better than to interrupt and waits instead for Sherlock to speak. After ten more minutes of closely scrutinising the file, he does.

'Why did you do that?' he asks absently, with only a quick glance upwards. His tone is off-hand, but John detects the genuine curiosity behind it.

'Do what?'

'Move your hand.'

For some reason, the question is unexpected; he had not thought about the action, and though he knows _why_ he did it, explaining seems to be another matter. He frowns.

'Are you embarrassed?' Sherlock asks, still apparently only half interested, though the care with which he forms the words gives him away.

'What – no!' John exclaims, suddenly horrified. Surely Sherlock can't think that he _regrets_ –?

'Ashamed, then?' Sherlock looks up at last, with a guarded expression on his face. John shakes his head imploringly,

'Sherlock, _no_, I just – I didn't – look, Mycroft knows. Apart from the fact he probably worked it out weeks ago anyway, he was there yesterday when I saw you after you woke up –'

'Yes,' Sherlock interrupts, smirking, 'not your most subt – subtle move, I must admit.'

'Well, you weren't complaining,' John retorts defensively,

'Did I say I was?'

John shakes his head, but he is smiling. 'If I was going to change my mind I would have done it already. I've had plenty of time to think. And anyway, Lestrade doesn't know and I wasn't sure if – oh, I don't know, I wasn't thinking. I didn't know if you _wanted_ him to know, or...' Sherlock shrugs, a glint in his eyes that is almost mischievous as he reaches forwards and takes John's hand firmly once more.

'I wish you'd stop worrying what other people think,' he says.

'Yes, well, some of us have a little thing called social skills. I know!' he exclaims before Sherlock can reply, and then they both speak at the same time, and laugh, 'boring.'

'Well that makes two new things on the list of what Lestrade doesn't know. It's really getting quite long,' Sherlock says, somewhere between thoughtful and incredulous.

'What's the second thing?' John asks. Sherlock gestures to the crash report awkwardly with his strapped arm.

'This wasn't an accident.'


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. **

**AN: Just in case I don't upload again in time; Merry Christmas everyone! (And if you don't celebrate it, have a great time anyway).**

'This wasn't an accident.'

At first all John can feel is disbelief. Of _course_ it was an accident, how could it be otherwise? It just...it just can't have been...he speaks before even trying to consider it any further.

'You're not serious?' he says weakly, after a long pause. It's meant to be a statement rather than a question, but it doesn't come out that way. Sherlock gives him a look which suggests he thinks John's words are far stranger than his own. As always he seems genuinely shocked at being the only one to come to a particular conclusion.

'Of course I am,' he says, 'it's –'

'_Don't_ say obvious,' John hisses through gritted teeth, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to gather his thoughts. 'It was an accident. The police said it was an accident. They checked. They investigated. They aren't as stupid as you think they are Sherlock. You've barely had that file five minutes – they had it for over a month. You're just inventing a mystery because you're _bored _–' the words, unplanned, come out in a rush and sound much harsher than he intends.

'Well, it didn't exackly go as planned, if that's any cons – cons – for crying out loud, _consolation_ to you,' Sherlock replies indifferently, 'but it was clearly deliberate.' John opens his mouth to argue, but then sighs, resigning himself to hearing the explanation whether he wants to or not.

'Go on, then,' he says exasperatedly, 'how do you know?'

Sherlock flips one of the pages over clumsily so that John can see it. It's a photograph of the scene. Though taken from a short distance away, John can still see exactly what's happening – can remember. The paramedics are there. So are the fire crew, trying to cut Sherlock out of the car.

John's chest tightens at the memory; he's no longer sat by Sherlock's hospital bed, he's sat in a half crushed car, a mess of broken, sharp edged metal and shattered glass. Sherlock is not awake and well in front of him; Sherlock is unconscious and bleeding while John desperately tries to keep his heart beating. He can smell the blood, the burning, heated metal and rubber. Sirens wail and whine around him, shouts, creaks – blue flashing lights, _red_, and white skin as pale as death. Sherlock is cold – John can't breathe –

'_John!_' Sherlock calls urgently, breaking him out of his reverie. John gasps and sucks in a huge lungful of air as though he has just surfaced from underwater. His eyes are wide and wild for a moment before he manages to bring himself back to the present and level his breathing and heart rate again.

'I'm fine,' he tells the detective shortly. Sherlock looks doubtful. 'It just – it reminded me, that's all. I'm fine.'

'You're a terrible liar,' Sherlock's voice in uncharacteristically quiet as he says it, but to John's relief he carries on as though nothing has happened, pointing to various areas of apparent interest in the photograph. John forces himself to focus, to see it as any other crime scene – since when did he start thinking of it as a crime, rather than an accident, scene? He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

'Do you see those – the – _them_, there...do you see them?' He huffs impatiently at himself for not being able to think of the word and gestures towards the part of photograph he is referring to.

'The skid marks, from the tyres,' John murmurs, casting a concerned glance towards Sherlock's face before focusing his attention on the thick black lines that swerve across the surface of the road. He stops himself short of reassuring Sherlock once more about the aphasia, knowing that he does not need attention drawn to it, though it's clearly aggravating him. Sherlock nods curtly. 'Where the other car braked, yeah,' John confirms dubiously, eyeing the image with great suspicion.

'Well?' demands Sherlock,

'Well _what_?'

'_Look_! Don't you see?'

'No, Sherlock, I don't. How about you just tell me?' Sherlock tuts loudly, but obliges.

'Look at where they start,' he says, pointing. John squints at the photograph, swallowing back the rising memories it causes.

'So?'

'You aren't _looking_!'

'Yes I _am_! I just don't see anything strange about them, that's all! He – or she – or whoever it was, realised they were going to hit us, and tried to brake. Obviously it didn't work. They scarpered. You nearly died. What the Hell else do I need to know?'

'Don't you think they start a bit late?'

'What are you –? Give me that,' John snatches the paper away and begins inspecting it closely. Confusion and denial battle with the trust he has always held in Sherlock's reasoning. He isn't sure which is less comforting. Either Sherlock's recovery is rapid enough for his deductions to be correct, which would mean someone did this _deliberately_, or Sherlock is mistaken.

'They were probably drunk,' John says eventually, though even to his own ears he doesn't sound convinced. 'They didn't notice soon enough, or they noticed but their reaction times were off...and it was icy. They might have been moving faster than they meant to, or lost control of the car –'

'Or they intended to force us off the – off the – the – oh for God's _SAKE_!' The last word is shouted in frustration and Sherlock puts his head in his hands, gripping his hair in his fists so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His fingernails dig into his scalp and he grits his teeth furiously. He screws his face up with a combination of anger and pain at the sudden movement of his injured arm.

'Sherlock,' John says gently, leaning forwards and letting the paper fall to the floor, putting his hands over Sherlock's and lowering them gently. He hesitates before speaking, 'stop it. You're being too hard on yourself. You haven't been awake two days yet; you need to give yourself _time_. Try just...describing it, if you can't find the word. And talk slowly.'

Sherlock doesn't seem to have a reply and scowls at his knees ferociously, but he doesn't try and move away from John or give any sign of wanting him to let go. John waits until at least some of the tension has left Sherlock's body before he releases the detective's hands and retrieves the page from the floor.

'The road,' he prompts quietly. The sound seems to startle Sherlock back into his train of thought,

'They tried to force us off the road, realised too late that they were going the same way, attempted to stop, and failed,' he explains grudgingly,

'But – Sherlock, seriously, you can't think – this _can't_ have been deliberate,' John implores desperately. Sherlock takes the photograph from John's limp hand and slides it back between the pages of the report.

'Why not?' he asks, 'I – and therefore, we – have more than a few enemies scatt – ered around. I'm sure you can think of at least five people just at the mo – moment that would benefit if I was out of the way. And that's not counting the dozens who would probably not say no to a little revenge.' John struggles for a moment at the ease with which Sherlock admits the number of criminals who could carry such a grudge. He feels cold at the thought.

'If they were targeting us, or you, or whatever; what about the taxi driver?'

'Collateral damage.'

'Surely there are easier ways to...?'

'Yes, but this way they could make it look like an ac – acci – a mistake. Had they got their wish, no one would ever have known. I was hardly supposed to survive.' John winces at Sherlock's last statement, casting around for any evidence that might disprove his theory, and finding none.

Suddenly, a burning mixture of anger and fear bubbles in his chest, so much that he is momentarily dizzy. They can't, they _can't_ – how _dare_ they – oh, please let it only have been a drunk, please...anything – _please_ –

'You do realise,' says John slowly, when he finally finds his voice once more, 'that if they tried once, and failed...'

'Then they are likely to try again,' Sherlock finishes for him, 'yes.'

There is a long pause now, as John tries in vain to think of another argument, each new protestation weaker than the last as he quickly runs out of ideas. Hope and desperation race ahead of impartial logic. Surely this_ can't_ be true...? Surely – it just – it was an accident. An _accident_, it was icy, of course the car's brakes appeared to be applied too late. It doesn't have to have been _deliberate_ – and yet what is there to say it wasn't? As much as he tries to tell himself that there is no evidence to support Sherlock's theory, there is none to debunk it either.

'Why haven't they already?' John asks at length, though he thinks he knows the answer.

'They didn't want to draw attention to themselves,' Sherlock replies calmly, 'I wasn't a danger to them unconscious and they obviously don't see you as a threat. If the motive was revenge they'd have finished the job, so that at least narrows it down to current cases...'

'And now you're awake, you're a threat again,' John makes no attempt to mask the trepidation in his voice.

* * *

><p>It really <em>shouldn't <em>come as a surprise to Lestrade that barely three hours after leaving the hospital, Sherlock has summoned him back. Actually, he thinks, it isn't so much the being summoned back that _does_ surprise him – it's the fact that he doesn't mind. He has no doubt that exasperation will make a full return sooner or later, but for now it seems that news of Sherlock's recovery is enough to allow some patience with him.

He doesn't know why he gave Sherlock the file in the first place other than because he knew that Sherlock would be interested in it. Even if it presents no particular challenge and all the information he gleans from the report is deleted afterwards, Lestrade knows that the younger man will make it his business to know every detail of the accident anyway, simply because he can. No part of him really expected anything _new_ to turn up when he gave over the file...or did it? Something about this makes him uneasy. He doesn't see any solid evidence himself of foul play – but then, Sherlock Holmes always does see things that no one else quite manages to.

He still doesn't know now what Sherlock _has_ found. All he knows is that John sounded worryingly sombre on the phone, and advised the Detective Inspector come and listen to what Sherlock has to say.

Lestrade's mouth twists into a small smile now, despite the doubts that have begun to niggle at the edge of his mind over his conclusions regarding the 'accident'. Of his ideas in another matter, he is more than confident.

He doesn't entirely know whether he ought to feel insulted or amused that the pair of them take him for such a fool. He supposes offence at the assumption has long ago worn away, or he wouldn't be able to work with Sherlock as often as he does. But he would like to think that John, at least, holds him in higher regard than that...

Not the _case_. Oh, he's far too used to be overridden on cases to let that truly bother him anymore; but really, do they think he doesn't _know_? Do they _really_ think him so unobservant as not to have _noticed_? John did not move his hand quite as fast as he had hoped, and Lestrade isn't _blind_, and nor, despite Sherlock's regular announcements to the contrary, is he stupid.

Not so very long ago, had someone suggested to him the very idea of Sherlock Holmes even coming to regard another human being as a friend, he would have dismissed the thought in an instant.

But...well, then there was _John_.

He should have known something was different right from the start. In hindsight it was always so painfully _obvious_ – and the voice that tells Lestrade so sounds suspiciously like Sherlock himself – there has _always _been something different about John Watson.

He's just glad Sherlock finally seems to have caught up.

* * *

><p>'What about her?' Asks John; it's fifteen minutes since his phone call to Lestrade, and already Sherlock is restless with boredom. John has raised the blinds on the window looking into the corridor so that Sherlock can see out, and the two are entertaining themselves by studying passers-by. Or rather, Sherlock is studying, and John is listening.<p>

The girl John points to is in her late teens, and sat with a group of other people John assumes are her family, on a row of white plastic chairs against the wall. Sherlock peers at them for over a minute before he speaks.

'She's nervous –' he begins, and John scoffs.

'She's in a hospital; of course she's nervous!'

'Habitually,' Sherlock clarifies, pointing, 'see her – on her arms, clothes –' he struggles for a moment to find the word. John remains silent, giving him a chance to figure it out himself. 'Her sleeves, the cuffs? They're torn from where she's picked at them so many times – look, she's doing it now. And she keeps tucking her hair behind her ears, even when it's already there.'

'Okay,' John concedes, 'what else?'

Sherlock thinks for a moment. John frowns, wondering if the hesitation is down to his difficulty forming the words or the conclusions. 'Not much jewellery, no rings or anything too delicate...practical...she keeps fidgeting with that wristband though...probably a gift from the person she's waiting for – a friend.'

'Why not a family member?'

'The rest of her family would be here with her – they're not related to her, but she's close to them, probably the friend's family –'

'How can you possibly know she's not related to them? Just because she doesn't look like them – I barely look anything like my parents, and you and Mycroft –'

'The way she's sitting, John!' Sherlock exclaims, frustrated, as though it's obvious – which to him, it probably is. 'Her sleeves, the hair-tucking, indicate she's shy. But she's perfectly at ease with _them_, so she must have known them a long time. _But_, she keeps glancing at the older couple, friend's parents I presume, as if she's not sure she belongs. Ergo, she's not related.'

John waits, watching the group and trying to apply the same techniques to the rest of them, but finds he can tell very little beyond what Sherlock has already stated. He can see nothing – but as soon as this thought enters his mind, so does another.

_You see, you just don't _observe!

He shakes his head, dismissing Sherlock's question as to the reason, and points to another person in the corridor; a middle aged man, pacing back and forth and glancing continually at his watch.

'Him?'

'Why don't you try?' Sherlock suggests, raising his eyebrows. John shakes his head,

'No way, I'm not getting sucked into that. Every time I try and deduce something, you shoot it down in flames,'

'You just don't _look_ hard enough –'

'I'm not doing it, Sherlock –'

'Oh, don't be so childish, why not? I thought you admired my methods,'

'I do, but I can't do it, I'm not going to set myself up for being ridiculed again –'

'Since when you I ever ridi – cule you?'

'Seriously?'

'Try it,'

'I can't,'

'Well, now's your time to learn, isn't it?' John sighs and runs his hands through his hair, staring at the man for several long seconds. He can practically feel Sherlock's eyes burning into the side of his head but he refuses to look around, struggling to concentrate on the stranger outside the window. He can't think of anything – he just can't focus with Sherlock tapping his fingers like that! He slaps his palm over Sherlock's hand to stop them (ignoring the look that tells him this is precisely the reaction Sherlock was waiting for), screwing up his eyes with the effort of keeping his attention on the man.

'Well?' Sherlock prompts,

'I don't know. I can't do it, you know I can't,' John gives up, 'so go on, what can you tell? What should I be able to see?'

'You're not going to try?' Sherlock asks, sounding almost disappointed.

'I have tried, and I can't do it,'

'Just say what you see,'

'No.'

'Just describe him. Go on.'

John sighs again and looks at the ceiling as though praying for patience, then turns his eyes back on the corridor.

'He's pacing,'

'Very astute, John,' Sherlock replies sarcastically. John glares at him.

'So, obviously he's worried. Impatient. Probably whoever it is has been here a while, he keeps checking his watch...'

'Go on,'

John shrugs and spreads his hands, 'I don't know! He's just some guy in a hospital, he looks the same as every other bloke here!'

'No he doesn't, try again.'

'I'm not a child!'

'You're acting like one,' Sherlock smirks and nods to the window, 'don't be so dull; just tell me what you see.'

'Suit,' John replies resentfully, his embarrassment growing every moment; why _can't _he just see these things and _know,_ like Sherlock? Why is this so _difficult_? 'Smartly dressed, but ruffled – he keeps running his hands through his hair.'

'And what does that suggest?'

'That he's worried, just like everyone else here.'

'_And_?'

John takes a deep breath, trying very hard to control his temper. 'He probably got called out of work. Maybe some sort of business meeting. He's tired, looks like he's been awake for at least a day, but he's clean shaven, so...so he can't have been here the whole time. Extra work recently, or he's stressed and lost sleep...' He trails away, suddenly unsure of himself; it seemed to be going well, but the smile on Sherlock's face is making him uneasy, doubting his conclusions.

'Oh, don't mind me,' Sherlock gestures towards the window, 'you're doing fine.'

'Really?'

'I don't know how you manage, functioning that slowly, but yes, I'm sure you'll get there eventually.'

'Go on then, you do it,' John instructs, folding his arms petulantly and nodding towards the man.

'Wedding ring,' Sherlock replies immediately, 'he's twisting it constantly, so probably his wife here. He's been called out of work, so it's something sudden, rather than a long term illness or anything like that, but he looks more impatient than truly afraid, so I doubt she's seriously injured. It must be something big though, or he wouldn't have left the meeting. The – the – babies, the...the _maternity ward_...is just down that corridor – she's probably in labour, and – Lestrade!'

The final exclamation startles John, and he sits bolt upright, spotting the Detective Inspector a moment later, just before he pushes open the door to Sherlock's room.

'Something amusing?' asks Sherlock as Lestrade walks in, all deductions regarding the strangers outside quickly forgotten; Lestrade quickly shakes his head and arranges his face into what he hopes is a suitably serious expression.

'Not at all,' he replies. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and studies Lestrade for a long moment.

'Are you going to explain, then?' John prompts Sherlock, who moves his attention slowly away from Lestrade with an unreadable look on his face. He pauses, seeming to debate something with himself, then replies,

'You do it.'

John hopes he manages to mask the surprise he feels at the instruction enough to hide it at least from Lestrade, his previous irritation melting away into nothing. He knows why Sherlock has asked – or rather, told – him to do it instead. He doesn't want to be caught struggling with the words in front of Lestrade...John feels a pang of sympathy, but pushes it away, knowing it is the last thing Sherlock wants.

Lestrade makes much the same objections as John, but despite his initial half-hearted arguments, he seems resigned to the truth of what Sherlock is suggesting. Somehow, where Sherlock Holmes is concerned, foul play always seems more likely than near-tragic accident.

'Well...' Lestrade begins uncertainly after a pause, 'have you any idea – any _definite _idea who might be behind it? If it _was_ deliberate,'

'It was,' Sherlock replies sharply, 'all the evidence points that way. And by definition if I have only an idea, it's hardly definite, is it?'

Lestrade sighs and John shakes his head exasperatedly, 'you know what I meant,' the former says, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

'Epps is clearly a possibility,' Sherlock replies. 'Though I had already identified him, perhaps he thought that with me out of the way you would be unable to track him down – he would seem to have been right, at any rate –'

'Sherlock,' John warns.

'Any criminals recently released from prison whose cases I was involved in – get a list of those – and there was the...the robbery, high profile case, unsolved...' he trails away in frustration and glances towards John,

'The stolen emerald,' John supplies quietly, 'you suspected Ryder; not enough evidence though.'

'Quite,' Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, and another name hangs between the three men without any of them speaking it. John's chest tightens at the mere thought, knowing he should have suspected it sooner and hating himself for being so blind. He quickly tries, fruitlessly, to assure himself that it's not possible anyway. No; _he_ would make more of a statement than this, surely. _He_ would have finished the job. This shouldn't be a comfort to John, but anything, anything that could mean that the possibility of _him_ being involved is less...

'Moriarty,' mutters Lestrade eventually, breaking the heavy silence. Sherlock nods. John swallows, hearing an echo of eerie laughter reverberating around the cold walls of an empty swimming pool not so very long ago...

'Or one of his agents at least,' Sherlock nods slowly, 'especially if he has any connection to either Epps or Ryder, which is entirely possible.'

'So we can pretty much narrow down the suspect list to practically everyone in London?'

'Don't be absurd, John,' Sherlock scolds impatiently,

'All of the criminals, either recently released or yet to be caught, plus anyone Moriarty can coerce into working for him. I'd say that accounts for most of the population of London, if Moriarty's influence is anywhere near as far reached as he claims it is,' John is undeterred, barely even attempting to keep his voice level. He knows there is no point, that Sherlock would see past it in seconds anyway, even if Lestrade wouldn't. Sherlock's own face is caught somewhere between contempt, concern and exhilaration, all held on a tight leash so that his expression is a frozen caricature of all three which only John can read.

'If Moriarty has the power he claims to have, London is barely a pinprick on the map for him,' Sherlock replies matter-of-factly. 'Though I have reason to believe he is not as influential as he likes to think he is; or at least, as he wants _us_ to think he is.'

'And why's that then?' Lestrade asks,

'Because I happen to have my own connections,' Sherlock replies, then, though it pains him to admit it, 'and Mycroft has his.'


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't have this trouble concentrating on revision instead of just sitting waiting for series 2.**

**AN: A slightly late Christmas present for everyone; I hope you enjoy it.**

John knows that life with Sherlock Holmes is not what anyone would likely call safe or anywhere close. After all, the danger is what drew him into this in the first place. He knows that it shouldn't affect him like this to hear that someone is targeting them, but he can't help but feel cold at the thought.

The memory of Sherlock's twisted body in the back of the crumpled taxi is still fresh in his mind, and the thought that it might happen again chills him to the bone. He never, _never_ wants to see Sherlock so still again, never wants to feel so helpless...

And yet this is what Sherlock Holmes _is_. John can't deny the warmth he feels at seeing the familiar energy in his flatmate's eyes or the sense of purpose he feels himself at what he can almost, if he tries hard enough, fool himself is just another normal case. But he will not rest easy while he knows Sherlock is in such immediate danger.

'Oh, stop _fretting_, John!' Sherlock exclaims, having noticed before John himself even realised that the doctor's eyes are darting suspiciously around every corner as they exit the hospital. Several days – filled with loud and irritable complaints from Sherlock – have passed since he woke, and he has finally been discharged. His speech is almost entirely normal now. John pretends not to notice the trouble he has doing his shirt buttons up, or that he stumbles on the way out and has to concentrate very hard on where he puts his feet. John does, however, resolve to somehow force Sherlock to take things _slowly_.

'I am not _fretting_,' John answers reproachfully; Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'I'm in no more danger now than I was before this happened. Simply because we are now _aware_ of the threat, doesn't make it any more real or fabricated than it has always been.'

Days of trawling through the lists of released criminals and unsolved cases provided by Lestrade has given them nothing more than names to put to the growing number of suspects. Neither Sherlock nor anyone else has been able to narrow the field of inquiry any further as yet. It is to Sherlock both endlessly frustrating and endlessly fascinating, and to John a constant assault on his already frayed nerves. Having spent even more time at the hospital now Sherlock is conscious than he had before he woke up, John's neck tingles as though they are being watched even just walking across the car park.

'I'm worried about you,' John replies. 'I think that's a perfectly legitimate reaction, don't you? Given that we now _know_ someone wants you dead.'

'Someone always wants me dead,' Sherlock says dismissively, 'it's just more specific this time.' He pronounces 'specific' with great care, but John can see the faintest brightening of Sherlock's eyes which betrays his relief at getting it right.

'Well, forgive me for being concerned. You're genuinely not bothered by this at all, are you?' John's question sounds disbelieving and hopeful at the same time. He wants Sherlock to reply that of course he is unsettled by it, though he knows such a response is never going to be provided.

'Is being bothered by it going to help? Will it make me focus, or is it a distraction I could really do without?' Sherlock asks; his voice is sharp.

'No,' John answers reluctantly. 'But –'

'Then I'll leave the molly coddling to you,'

'I am not _molly coddling_! I just seem to be the only one out of the two of us who actually gives a damn whether you live or die!' Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly. John huffs an impatient sigh, raking a hand through his hair in his frustration, then pauses and frowns, suddenly thoughtful as an odd realisation hits him. 'If you're so unconcerned by all this,' he begins slowly, 'why are we walking?'

'What?'

'Why are we walking?' He repeats, 'why haven't we got a cab yet?' If John didn't know better, he would say that for a moment – just a moment – Sherlock looks disconcerted, before his imperious mask is firmly back in place.

'I need the exercise,' he replies mechanically. 'I've been shut inside for the best part of two months. I need to regain my muscle strength.'

'Bull,' says John immediately, though medically he agrees. 'The only type of exercise you care about is mental, and you can do that just as well sitting down.'

'Fine,' Sherlock accedes, smirking, '_you_ need the exercise.' At this, John can't help but laugh, and he gives Sherlock a playful shove while Sherlock tries to smother his own smile with little success. It's a wonder, John thinks, how easily a single word passed between the pair of them is capable of breaking all the tension of the preceding conversation. They enjoy several paces of companionable silence before John breaks it again, trying a different tactic this time.

'If I'm not allowed to be concerned for your safety,' he says; Sherlock looks around curiously at the suddenly much more contemplative tone of John's voice. 'Can I at least be concerned for my own?'

'I'm sorry?' Sherlock asks, frowning,

'You won't let me worry about you. Fine; what about myself? I'm in as much danger as you are if I end up caught in the crossfire.'

'You needn't worry about that,' says Sherlock, with absolute certainty where before there was only impatient indifference.

'The crash is enough proof of it,' John presses, misinterpreting Sherlock's tone. 'Whoever they are, they don't care if anyone else gets in the way –'

'I said, you needn't worry about it,' Sherlock repeats more firmly, turning his eyes to John with frightening intensity. He looks positively dangerous. 'They aren't going to get to you.'

* * *

><p>Sherlock is unsure of the exact reasons for his own reluctance to travel by taxi. He only knows that, though it is highly unlikely a similar attempt will be made and in all probability he and John would actually be far safer in a car, the thought of getting into another cab makes him distinctly...uncomfortable.<p>

No. No, he tells himself, it's merely that he finds it much easier to observe his surroundings as closely as necessary when travelling at his own speed. That is all. And it _is_ refreshing to breathe air that, while not exactly what anyone might call _fresh_, is at least lacking in the strong tang of disinfectant that soaks through the hospital. And he _does_ need to practice his now frustratingly questionable coordination. He doesn't miss the instinctive movement of John's arm when he stumbles, extended as though to catch him but quickly drawn back. Never has he felt more confined in his own body.

But the simple fact of being able to see more than just four plain, white walls before him is unbelievably freeing. He really _feels_ awake for the first time since opening his eyes.

John's words hold true, he knows. Whoever is behind the 'accident', they will probably make another attempt before too long now that Sherlock is awake and functioning once more – but what form will the attempt take? Will they try to make it look like another accident, and assume the closeness of events will be put down to coincidence? Or will they make a more obvious effort, now that their aim is known? Will they become _more_ careful, or throw caution to the winds? Will they want to be _certain _this time, and therefore make a much more _specific_ attempt? Or are they still not concerned with harming anyone who might stand in their way?

They were not afraid last time, Sherlock thinks. The possibility of killing the taxi driver was nothing to them. The possibility of killing _John_...Sherlock's chest is tight when he thinks of this, his breathing suddenly restricted. While John is with Sherlock, he is in danger. This has always been the case; Sherlock knows the truth of his own admonishment to John. Things are no different now than they were before, only that they _know_...which should, by rights, make them safer…if they are aware, if they are alert...

So why does he feel sick now, when he considers it? He knows how close he came to death himself. He does not need John to tell him that. And if they had changed places? If John had been sat where he himself was? If John were the one who had been so severely injured, and Sherlock escaped with scratches in comparison?

But he _didn't_, that hasn't happened, and Sherlock is not one to dwell on what-ifs – so why won't the thought leave him alone? It has happened and it is over, there is no way of changing it and whether or not it _might_ have been different means nothing. John is safe – or as safe as he can be at the moment.

However, there is the inescapably real chance of it happening again, of there being a different outcome this time.

_Moriarty_, Sherlock thinks...even if he is not involved, the name sends a chill down his spine that is part excitement, part fear; not for himself, but for John.

And if not Moriarty, then who? The list of possibilities is a long one. Even with the help of both Mycroft's people and his own connections with the Homeless Network, their sights can only reach so far. There is still a chance the culprit could slip any net they cast out, especially with so little to go on.

'I need –' begins Sherlock after a long silence,

'No,' John interrupts, 'no case. Not yet.'

'John, this is happening _now_! Whoever this is, isn't going to wait around for you to get over your stupid little fears, I need to work!' Sherlock snaps, but John shakes his head.

'No,' he repeats calmly, 'we have more important things to do. You're not getting anywhere on this case at the moment, and you can't do anything more until you get some news, so forget it.'

'I thought you wanted this over? I can hardly find them if you insist on keeping me from doing anything productive –'

'I never said you couldn't do anything productive, I just said you couldn't work on the case. Of course I want it over, as soon as possible, but you're supposed to be resting. You need to give yourself time to recover.'

'From what?' Sherlock exclaims, maddened by the perfectly cool tone of John's voice,

'You are kidding, right?'

'I have been bed-ridden for over six weeks; I've had quite enough rest to be going on with.'

* * *

><p>Their argument continues until they reach the flat, when Sherlock is finally silenced by Mrs Hudson throwing her arms around him with delight and beaming tearfully. He winces as he pats her on the back with his injured left arm.<p>

'Oh, Sherlock, I'm so glad you're back, it's not been the same around here without you – much too quiet!' She laughs and wipes her eyes, shaking her head and scolding her own silliness, 'you just keep yourself out of trouble for a few days at least, okay? I can't be doing with all this worry! And poor John...' She pauses meaningfully. 'Well, it's just a blessing you're okay.'

Sherlock's smile is genuine, his countenance softening as he listens to Mrs Hudson's fussing. He sees John slip upstairs while she talks, and keeps half an eye watching over her shoulder in curiosity.

'...and is it true?' she asks, 'was it really deliberate? The scoundrels! Why, if I ever meet one of them then –'

What exactly Mrs Hudson would do if she met anyone who dared harm either of her eccentric tenants, Sherlock doesn't find out. He does suppress a smile at how formidable she manages to look for such a small woman as she makes the threat, though. The interruption comes as John reappears behind her, Sherlock's laptop and mobile in hand.

'Hide these, if you would, Mrs Hudson,' he passes them to her with a pointed look towards Sherlock, 'wherever you like. Just make sure he can't find them – easily, at least.'

'What am I supposed to do without those?' Sherlock asks indignantly, as Mrs Hudson gives a knowing smile and leaves with the items.

'I told you,' John says, 'no work today.'

'And what exactly am I meant to do instead?'

John spreads his arms, gesturing to the empty walls around them. 'In case you'd forgotten,' he replies, smiling as Sherlock's face drops in realisation of his plan, 'it's Christmas Eve. I think this place could do with looking a little more festive, don't you?'

* * *

><p>Five cardboard boxes are filling the space in the middle of the floor in John and Sherlock's living room. Sherlock eyes them with utter contempt, distaste written into every detail of his expression. Mrs Hudson looks on with delight and John's smile is caught between a kind of relieved contentment and undeniable amusement at Sherlock's discomfort.<p>

One of the boxes, the smallest, is John's. It contains only trinkets, but all are new, bought within the last three days in fact, in preparation for Sherlock's homecoming. The other four are courtesy of Mrs Hudson, and the largest holds a rather threadbare looking artificial Christmas tree, waiting forlornly to be assembled. An assortment of decorations both old and new spill from the final three; glittering red baubles, tangles of knotted fairy lights, and coils of tinsel which are already shedding strips of coloured foil onto the floor that will not be removed for many weeks to come.

These are mostly spares and leftovers from Mrs Hudson's extensive collection of Christmas decorations, all gladly donated to John's eager, and Sherlock's petulantly reluctant, use.

'_This_ is what you want me doing instead of work?' Sherlock asks scornfully, nudging the box closest to him with his toe. 'What's the _point_?'

'It's called _fun_, Sherlock. As in, real fun, not chasing-serial-killers-through-the-streets fun, or cracking-your-head-open-on-the-ice fun, or meeting-bombers-at-empty-swimming-pools _without – telling – me_ fun. Now help me with the tree.'

The plastic tree is evidently ancient. Three separate hollow metal tubes make up the trunk, which proves almost impossible to satisfactorily fit together so they don't topple and come apart at the slightest touch. It is a little wonky by the time it's finished, but it will do.

The branches are bedraggled and thin, colour coded bands twisted around the hooks to ascertain their position on the trunk. Sherlock insists on sorting them into piles of increasing size so that they might work from the base upwards while affixing them to the trunk without having to hunt through a small mound of them in search of the right one.

Spreading out the little wire twigs to make the branches wider turns out to take much longer than John had anticipated. Sherlock, though still bemoaning the loss of his phone and laptop, pays attention to minute detail with a focus normally reserved for scenes of horrific murders. Every branch must have its twigs spread evenly. There must not be any bare patches on the tree; it must rise uniformly and not have gaps or branches of the wrong size anywhere.

'If I'm to be forced into this, then I will do it _properly_,' is his excuse. John and Mrs Hudson share an amused smile, for which Sherlock 'accidentally' misses John's hand when throwing him the next completed branch, and catches him full in the face with the bushy part.

'Sherlock, be careful!' John exclaims, 'what if that had been the sharp end?'

'I have excellent aim,' Sherlock replies.

'Right,' says John, '_right._' He says nothing more, putting the branch on the trunk without another word, but his tone clearly states _this isn't over_.

'Last one dear,' Mrs Hudson calls, handing John the final branch, which he slots into place.

Next come the decorations for the tree. John, with a smirk, sets Sherlock the task of untangling the fairy lights. He sets himself to putting the baubles up – as mismatched and uneven as possible, quietly singing along to _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_ as it plays in the background. He makes no attempt whatsoever to hide his amusement at Sherlock's increasing irritation with the knotted wires. His excuse – which is partly true – is that the exercise will help Sherlock improve his fine motor function. Sherlock spends the whole time muttering murderously under his breath and casting icy glares in John's direction.

Over an hour later John steps back from the tree and surveys it with his hands on his hips. The tinsel – that which is not currently stuck in Sherlock's hair after John's 'slip' with the box as he lifted it over the seated detective – is rather worn and pathetic-looking; ruffled and faded over time. The baubles have no discernible theme; they feature everything from plain red, gold and green, to tiny skiing Santa Clauses and clear plastic stars tipped with silver glitter. The lights are not, despite Sherlock's best efforts, spread evenly, as doing so proved impossible. Several bulbs are not working.

It is crooked, tired looking and entirely imperfect.

And yet, for some reason, it is the most beautiful thing John has ever seen. It's not quite right, not quite as it should be; far from unblemished, completely mismatched and at odds with itself.

It will fit right in at Baker Street.

'It's missing something...' Mrs Hudson interrupts his thoughts, tapping her foot and peering at the tree.

'Isn't there supposed to be a topper of some sort?' Sherlock replies, still doing his best to look displeased with the situation, but seeming far more at ease than he pretends to be.

'There wasn't one,' says John. 'I looked through the boxes, there's nothing –'

'Oh!' Mrs Hudson exclaims suddenly, clapping her hands over her mouth with excitement. 'Oh, yes, that would be perfect – that would really finish it off...it'll properly belong then...' and she dashes off out of the room, leaving both Sherlock and John frowning after her in confusion.

'What's she doing?' John asks automatically.

'I have no idea –'

'Here!' She comes rushing back in, brandishing a shoebox with a thick layer of dust over the top. She pushes it at Sherlock, who opens it dubiously.

'What is it?' John steps forwards, glancing between Sherlock's face, which is unreadable, though his raised eyebrows indicate some surprise, and Mrs Hudson.

'A tree topper,' she tells him, 'consider it a Christmas present – but I don't want to see it lying around after the decorations are down! It goes straight back away!'

'What –?' John begins, utterly bewildered, 'Sherlock, what is it?'

'You're right,' Sherlock tells Mrs Hudson, with a small but uncharacteristically warm smile. 'This just finishes it off.'

And from the box, he pulls the confiscated skull, and perches it at the very top of the tree.

* * *

><p>'Well I, frankly, do <em>not<em>,' Sherlock announces suddenly and loudly, draining his glass and glaring at the CD player.

'Do not _what_?' John asks,

'_Wish it could be Christmas every day_,' is Sherlock's contemptuous reply over the music that John immediately turns up, grinning mischievously. 'Must you have that thing playing _constantly_?'

'It's _Christmas_, Sherlock! You're awake, it's Christmas Eve, and I'm happy. I'm allowed to be happy. You should try it sometime; it might be good for you,'

'It's not technically Christmas for another three hours,'

'Oh, shut up,' John grins and flicks the white bobble on his Santa hat out of his face. The room is thoroughly decorated now; it's evening and the brightly coloured fairy lights twinkle and glitter in the dimly lit room. He and Sherlock are drinking homemade eggnog – or at least, the closest approximation to it that they have been able to concoct. John has the distinct feeling that were he to open the curtains, he would see snow falling outside. Even the skull, peering menacingly down from the top of the tree, manages to look festive.

Christmas has come to 221b Baker Street.

_Sherlock_ has come to 221b Baker Street.

John is content, at least for now.

'I haven't got you a present,' says Sherlock abruptly. He doesn't know why this bothers him, but it does, in an odd sort of way he isn't completely familiar with. It's the 'done' thing, isn't it? To buy gifts for people at Christmas? Sherlock is never certain who he is supposed to bother with at this time of year, and who he is not expected to make any sort of effort for; he usually simply ignores the holiday. It serves no purpose to him. But...John has gone and made everything _different_ hasn't he? Sherlock isn't sure whether he resents this or not.

'I haven't really got you one, either,' John admits casually, 'it's been a bit complicated, hasn't it?'

Sherlock lets out a half-laugh of agreement.

'Although...'

'What?' Sherlock's voice is guarded and wary now, recognising John's tone.

'Well,' John continues, 'I haven't forgotten our deal yet, you know.'

'Our deal?' Sherlock asks, genuinely nonplussed, 'What deal? You mean the one where you force me to –'

'To take a break like everyone else does every once in a while, especially after being in unconscious for six weeks? No, not that one, but it still counts. I'm talking about the film deal.'

Sherlock frowns, 'film deal?'

'I said, when we got back to the flat, we would watch a film, and you were forbidden from guessing the ending – out loud, anyway. When we left Angelo's.'

Sherlock opens his mouth, looking very much as though he is about to object, then closes it again. By all accounts, this _should_ be unimaginably frustrating, sitting here with no work, nothing to entertain him save for pointless seasonal traditions he has never had any interest in. He _could_ always find a way around John's restrictions, it really wouldn't be difficult. He's already narrowed down the list of potential hiding places for his phone and laptop to just three...but he supposes it's not all _that_ bad.

He has at least found another pastime while he waits for the ban on work to be lifted; John watching is turning out to be surprisingly fascinating.

Every time a new song starts John's expression changes; sometimes delight, sometimes amusement, sometimes nostalgia. Sometimes he sings along. Often he forgets the words, and carries on anyway. The arrival of the carol singers, switching on the lights; the four failed attempts at making eggnog...each brought a unique and undeniably _John-ish _look onto the doctor's face, which Sherlock is careful to catalogue and store away.

He wants – needs – to memorise exactly where the creases appear around his eyes, the precise curve of his mouth when he smiles, the particular twinkle of his eyes. He wants to know what it would feel like to kiss the little grooves on John's forehead when he frowns. He wants to test whether the eggnog makes his lips taste different. He wants more information. He wants to see John smiling again.

This more than anything, he assumes, is probably why rather than the vehement protest he means to voice, he instead eventually finds himself saying 'I get to choose the film.'

John shakes his head, 'oh no. _I_ get to choose the film...'

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock is watching the television with eyebrows raised so high they are in danger of disappearing altogether. He is caught between astonishment at the sheer ridiculous stupidity of some people, and a sort of amused disbelief that John could actually _like_ this film. It's...it's...

'John, is that supposed to be a frog? Singing?'

'Yes,' John replies simply, his thumb absently rubbing Sherlock's shoulder where his arm is draped across. 'Shut up and watch the film.'

For once, Sherlock obediently falls silent. He grows more and more incredulous and restless as time goes on, until he cannot remain quiet any longer; despairing, bemused and struggling to comprehend how this could be considered entertainment.

'How on Earth would a pig and a frog manage to procreate?'

'Sherlock, I really, _really_ don't want to think about it. Shut up.'

Several more moments of undisguised bemusement, then 'are we expected to believe that –?'

'_Sherlock_,'

'But John, how are they –?'

'It not 'a pig and a frog', it's Miss Piggy and Kermit. _Tell me_ you've heard of the Muppets?' Sherlock's silence is his answer, and John rolls his eyes. 'I should have known...' he sighs, as though lamenting a great loss, then adds briskly, 'anyway, they're not even the Muppets at the moment; they're Mr and Mrs Cratchet. So just watch the film.'

'Who are –?'

'_Shut –_' John twists in his seat, puts one hand behind Sherlock's head and kisses him, hard. '–_Up. _And watch the film.'

* * *

><p>When midnight strikes, the entire flat is silent.<p>

The film has finished and the room is lit faintly by the blue glow of the empty screen, coupled with the still glittering and flashing fairy lights.

John was right; snow is indeed falling heavily outside, great fat flakes drifting lazily past the windows in the darkness, though neither inhabitant is awake to see them.

Both are still on the sofa leaning against one another; sound asleep as somewhere in the distance Big Ben chimes in December twenty fifth.

**AN: Just in case anyone didn't recognise it, the film Sherlock and John watched is "The Muppets' Christmas Carol".**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: As ever, I don't own Sherlock.**

**AN: Thank you everyone for your patience! I'm sorry for the wait, I only have one word to explain it: EXAMS. But they're over now, so on we go…**

**This chapter includes more shameless and ridiculous Christmas fluff and nonsense; and then some actual plot.**

It's daylight when John opens his eyes on Christmas morning. Pale sunlight is filtering weakly through the crack between the closed curtains. Briefly, he considers merely going back to sleep, but his neck is stiff and aching already. He pushes himself slowly upright, wincing and groaning as he does.

'That,' he mutters grumpily, rubbing his eyes, 'is the _last_ time I fall asleep on the sofa.'

'It wouldn't be as bad if you didn't sleep so late,' Sherlock admonishes, flexing his arm experimentally. He wiggles his fingers to try and force some feeling back into them, returning the circulation that has been cut off where John has leant on it.

'What time is it?' is what John means to say, but it comes out as some sort of incomprehensible mumble, which causes Sherlock to huff a sigh between derision and amusement.

'Almost nine,' he replies in a reproving tone, checking his watch.

'You haven't got up either,' John manages to say; Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'I've been awake at least an hour,' Sherlock replies, and the fact surprises him as much as John; never before would he have put up with the mind numbing tedium of remaining in bed – or rather, on the sofa – for so long after waking up. 'You were leaning on my arm,' is his only explanation.

John grunts in response. He sits forward on the sofa cushion, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. Never. Again. He is _never_ sleeping on the sofa again as long as he lives. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

'No,' John mutters before Sherlock can speak, 'don't even say it.'

'Say what?'

'I do not have a hangover.'

'I assure you, the thought never crossed my mind,' Sherlock lies.

John knows he's lying. And he knows that Sherlock is, for once, wrong. He just can't be bothered to argue the case; he did not drink _that_ much eggnog. And only a _small_ amount of the whisky they were supposed to be putting in it...certainly not much more than Sherlock at any rate. But right now, his brain and mouth are working at entirely different speeds, and he can't seem to form the words to explain himself.

'Get changed,' Sherlock instructs him eventually, standing up.

'Urgh,' John replies, momentarily off-balance as the cushion beside him rises when Sherlock's weight leaves it. Again, though, he has neither the energy nor the inclination to say anything particularly witty or poignant, and settles for dragging himself with as much dignity as he can muster to his room.

It takes some fifteen minutes for him to feel awake enough to return, his sluggish mind dragging itself back to coherency with a great deal of reluctance. His shoulder twinges painfully as he pulls on a fresh jumper and he winces again. Sleeping on the sofa is now _firmly_ labelled as a Bad Idea.

Once dressed, John crosses to the window and twitches the curtain aside. It's bright in the street; the sky is pearly with clouds, a single fuzzy patch of yellowish-white glimmering softly where the sun is trying to break through with little success. What light it is casting, however, is reflected back magnificently off the snow that covers every visible surface to spectacular effect.

The street is relatively quiet; most people are probably either still in bed, or else awake and watching their children open their presents...a group of teenagers run past, laughing – one boy's coat is splattered with snow and a girl is gathering another handful from the ground for fresh ammunition. John smiles, grabs a large parcel from on top of the chest of drawers, and walks down to find Sherlock in the kitchen.

'Merry Christmas,' he throws the parcel to Sherlock, who drops the spoon he was holding with a clatter in his effort to catch it. John chuckles at the uncharacteristically inelegant movement, and Sherlock glares at him.

'I thought you said you hadn't got anything?' He replies acidly, eyeing the package with an expression bordering on suspicious.

'The proper response is 'Merry Christmas to you too'. And it's not technically a Christmas present, I had it done anyway, it just seemed appropriate,' he pauses, shaking his head at Sherlock's close inspection of the present. 'Stop trying to deduce what's inside and just open it like a normal person.'

'Boring,' Sherlock tuts automatically,

'Yes, well, some of us like boring.'

Sherlock doesn't reply to this, instead hooking his fingers into the paper and making short work of the tape holding it together. He glances up at John quickly, then back down at the folded black fabric.

'You'd better not ruin it again,' John warns as Sherlock lifts the coat away from the wrapping paper completely, 'that cost a bloody fortune to get fixed.'

* * *

><p>Daytime television is, by definition, terrible. John knows this – he has wasted far too many hours in front of it, flicking with ever decreasing hope between channels for something he can stand to watch without going mad with boredom.<p>

Anyone who has ever had the misfortune to be subjected to it knows that daytime television is to be avoided at all costs – _especially_ at Christmas.

Except for Sherlock Holmes, that is, who is pointing the remote dejectedly at the TV and changing the channels nauseatingly quickly. His scowl deepens with every new failed attempt to find something worth watching. It's infuriating.

'Sherlock!' John exclaims, slamming his hand onto Sherlock's arm to stop the constant button-pressing, 'for God's sake, either choose something or turn the damn thing off.'

'I'm bored,' Sherlock replies sullenly, his features arranged into a petulant pout of annoyance.

'I'd noticed,' says John through gritted teeth, teasing the remote from Sherlock's hand and pressing the power button firmly. Perhaps confining Sherlock to the flat for two whole days, without his phone or laptop, was not such a good idea after all. He glances towards the window and frowns at the snow falling outside. Christmas with Sherlock is turning out to be...well, just like almost every other day with Sherlock, actually.

'Let's go for a walk,' John announces suddenly, standing up; Sherlock looks at him as though he has gone mad.

'What?'

'You heard what I said.'

'I'd rather not,' Sherlock replies disparagingly, turning a scornful look to the snow.

'You'd rather sit here staring at a blank TV screen?' John is already pulling on his coat. 'Your choice; I'm going.'

'_Why_?'

'Because it's Christmas; it's nice. It's what people do. And because I can't stand being trapped in a room with you when you're bored,'

'I wouldn't _be _bored if you'd let me work on the case –'

'You could have accepted Mycroft's invitation,'

'I'm not _that_ bored.'

John laughs, 'I'm going, you can come if you like,' he calls with an air of finality over his shoulder, opening the door. He makes sure that he has his back to Sherlock before he lets the smile spread across his face.

Sherlock remains in his seat for a moment, debating. John is walking out the door without a backwards glance...walking is _boring_...but so is sitting here. On his own. Without a case. Without John. With _daytime television_, which he is rapidly coming to realise is probably a form of torture in its own right. He could always steal his phone and laptop back from Mrs Hudson, he is already certain he knows where she has hidden them...John will probably not be back for at least an hour...

A sudden loud _thump_ interrupts his thoughts and he jumps around – _not_ startled, just...mildly surprised at the unexpected noise – to see a large splotch of white sliding down the outside of the window. His eyebrows shoot up of their own accord as he moves quickly across the room to look out.

John is stood on the path, already speckled with white from the falling snow, taking aim with a second badly shaped missile and grinning mischievously. Sherlock smiles despite himself – John waves, gesturing for Sherlock to join him, his nose tinged red from the cold after only a minute or so outside. Sherlock opens the window to call down to him – and John lets the second snowball fly.

It hits Sherlock in the face.

For several seconds, Sherlock doesn't respond – then he very carefully wipes the snow from himself, shaking it out of his hair and blinking slowly.

'You will pay for that, John Watson,' he doesn't need to raise his voice. The menace in it carries perfectly to John, who has the decency to look momentarily wary of the seriousness of Sherlock's tone.

Sherlock is already pulling on his newly fixed coat, snatching his scarf on the way out and letting the door swing shut behind him. He hurries down the steps and stoops to the ground the moment he steps outside to scoop up a handful of snow. John watches him,

'You wouldn't...' he says, '_Sherlock Holmes_...having a _snowball fight_? Surely far too meaningless for the great consulting detective...'

'Not at all,' Sherlock replies calmly, gathering still more snow and patting it into a larger ball, rolling it meticulously into a perfect sphere. 'It's an experiment.'

'An experiment to find out...what, exactly?' John asks, now backing away as Sherlock approaches.

'That would ruin the point of the experiment.' He's not looking at John, instead seeming to devote his entire attention to forming the snowball. He's silent. Distantly he wonders if he could, actually, conduct a viable investigation into projectile aerodynamics or ballistics of some sort with this – but how is he to control the variables? Wind speed, snow consistency, the precise size and shape of the snowball itself...

'Sherlock...?' John stops backing away and takes a step forwards – lightening fast, Sherlock takes aim and throws the snowball. John covers his head with his arms just in time and avoids getting a face full, immediately bending down to get revenge ammunition. Sherlock dodges the next snowball sent his way, and catches John in the back with one of his own – receiving one on the cheek for his efforts.

Ten minutes later and two streets away, John stops, waving to Sherlock for a ceasefire and trying to catch his breath with his hands on his knees.

'I – cannot – believe – you just did that,' he gasps, beaming nevertheless. His coat is thoroughly soaked now, and he can't help but laugh at the sight of Sherlock with chunks of snow stuck in his tousled hair.

'You –' Sherlock begins,

'– You are _not_ going to say what I think you're going to say –'

'– started it.'

Then they are both laughing breathlessly, genuine smiles passing between them as each shakes their head at their own antics.

'You remember when I said chasing the taxi was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever done?' John asks, slowly bringing his laughter and breathing under control and standing straight again.

'Yes,' replies Sherlock; how could he not? That entire case had been fascinating in its own right, and yet still one of the most memorable, most intriguing aspects of it had been discovering just how well he fitted with John Watson. How captivating such an outwardly simple, boring man could be.

'Correction – _that_ was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done.'

How easily each could make the other relax, without even trying to – and at the same time, how quickly either could infuriate the other more than anyone else; even Mycroft.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, brushing away the snow that has stuck there and looking curiously at John, wondering why on Earth he just did what he did. Then he catches sight of John's smile.

Ah. _That's_ why. It seems he is going to have to look out for that smile – it has an unexpectedly strong influence on him, though he finds he doesn't really mind that much after all.

'What's so interesting?' says John, looking around as though expecting to see something behind him,

'Nothing,' Sherlock replies. This...John, everything...is...strange. But somehow not unpleasant. Very much like the inter-workings of the Solar System, it seems to be something that will happen whether or not he pays it any attention, whether or not he understands why – so it doesn't seem all that important to try.

'So – still bored?' The amusement is more than evident in John's voice, and he flashes Sherlock another one of those grins that Sherlock can't help but want to see again.

'Not as such,' he answers eventually. John rolls his eyes, takes Sherlock's hand and starts to walk in the general direction of Baker Street once more. They are silent for what feels like a long while. Sherlock is no doubt deducing the life history of every person they pass, while John finds his mind straying into unwelcome territory. Without meaning to, his grip on Sherlock's hand tightens.

'John?' Sherlock breaks the quiet – he needn't voice his question, John knows what he is asking.

'It's nothing,' he replies, trying to dislodge the images from his mind.

'I've told you before, John – you're really incapable of lying.'

John sighs, his good mood dampened now as he opens his mouth to explain, then closes it again. They are almost back at the flat.

'I was just – look, it's stupid, forget about it. Honestly, it's –'

'John.'

'I didn't expect you to be here this Christmas,' John says eventually, all traces of good humour gone from his expression. 'I thought – look, it doesn't matter, you're here, I was wrong, they were wrong – it's fine. I thought...'

'You thought I was going to die,' Sherlock finishes for him succinctly. John visibly winces at Sherlock's indifference.

'Yeah,' he says tightly, 'like I said, forget it. It doesn't matter.'

'You're right,' Sherlock replies, stopping outside the door of 221b; he opens it, but doesn't go in, pausing and turning around, 'it doesn't matter.'

'Thanks,' says John sarcastically, 'that's a real help –'

'Because I have no plans of dying any time soon. So _stop_ _worrying_.' He leans forwards, resting his forehead against John's and staring intently at him, taking care to absorb every detail of his appearance – of _John_. 'I'm fine.'

A smile flickers briefly across John's face, and he is about to reply when he notices something hanging from the top of the doorframe that _definitely_ wasn't there when they left.

'Is that –?' John starts; Sherlock glances up.

'Mistletoe,' he finishes quietly,

'Mrs Hudson...' John breathes, somewhere between amused and exasperated.

'I'm sure there's some sort of tradition associated with this,' Sherlock says, mock-thoughtfully, and John doesn't have time to laugh before his lips are pressed against Sherlock's, his back against the doorframe. His concerns skitter away in the wind, dancing like the snowflakes still falling around them and he smiles into the kiss, gentle and slow but loaded with meaning. He breathes in the unmistakable scent of Sherlock, of coffee and nicotine and mint, as though he will never get the chance again, and feels Sherlock's hand at the small of his back, pulling him closer. His own arms reach up of their own accord, resting on Sherlock's shoulders and looping round the back of his head, John's fingers twisting lightly into Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock hums with pleasure. They have all the time in the world, all the space and all the power, and who cares about Moriarty or anybody else anyway?

'When you two have quite finished,' a semi-disgruntled voice breaks through, and they jump apart guiltily to see Lestrade standing on the path. 'Don't you answer your phone?' He addresses Sherlock as though nothing has happened. John feels himself turning bright red, hyper aware of the snowflakes melting on his burning cheeks. Of how close he is still standing to Sherlock, the frantic beating of his own heart.

'It's been confiscated,' Sherlock replies coolly, 'I was about to negotiate its return.'

'What's wrong?' John interrupts, glaring at Lestrade until the tiny smirk melts from the DI's face,

'Christmas present for you,' Lestrade replies, the smirk fading until he looks distinctly out of sorts, 'there's been another murder.'

* * *

><p>Sherlock, out of habit it seems, refuses to ride in the police car, and he and John follow immediately behind in a taxi, all previous reluctance forgotten. John can practically taste the infectious energy radiating from Sherlock at the prospect of a case and his own twinge of exhilaration battles with a rush of guilt.<p>

Neither of them speak for the length of the journey, but the silence is not an uncomfortable one; tense with anticipation, yes, but they are both simply too absorbed in their own thoughts to speak. There just isn't the need to vocalise what is going through their heads. Briefly, it's as though nothing has changed in the last two months. It's just another case; just another crime scene for Sherlock to examine.

The street they follow the police car into is run down – most of the buildings look tired and old, and many appear to be wearing slowly away before their eyes. The house they approach is quite the most decrepit of all of them; evidently it has been empty for some time, and a large, lopsided sign announces _**DANGER:**__ UNSTABLE STRUCTURE, KEEP OUT_.

The red brick is chipped in places and three of the windows are boarded up. One on the top floor has been smashed straight through, leaving a dark, gaping hole in its place, and another has a single crack running diagonally across it. The front door is literally hanging off a single hinge.

Lestrade is stood waiting for them when they get out of the taxi, his face grim.

'It's an old place, been abandoned for about two years,' he tells John, following his gaze to the missing tiles on the roof. 'Then a couple of weeks ago some vandals set fire to it – irreparable. It's set to be demolished in the New Year.'

'Who found the body?' Sherlock asks, eyeing the place with great suspicion. Lestrade shrugs.

'Anonymous tip – we're trying to trace it,'

'You won't find anything,' Sherlock tells him distractedly, now running his fingers along the door frame. Lestrade doesn't reply.

Pulling his magnifying lens from his pocket, Sherlock crouches down and begins inspecting the footprints in the thick dust on the floor of the hallway. They are long and scuffed – John, though he daren't voice it in case of being shot down by Sherlock, suspects whoever left them was carrying something heavy.

'Your people have been past here?' It is more of a statement than a question, which Sherlock directs at Lestrade with a slight twist of his head, without actually looking up.

'They kept to the sides,' Lestrade replies, slightly defensively, 'and took photographs.'

Sherlock nods in ascent, then springs to his feet.

'Where's the body?' he asks; Lestrade gestures towards the staircase.

'Careful,' he warns, 'we don't know how stable this place actually is.' Sherlock seems on the verge of disagreeing, but a loud creak and an unmistakable snapping sound as he puts his foot on the first step forestalls his objection. John follows warily, pausing every few steps as Sherlock stoops to examine another mark on the floor or walls.

They tread carefully across the landing, which seems to have seen the worst of the fire damage; the walls are black and filthy, and patches of the floor have already been cordoned off by bright yellow police tape, clearly unsafe to walk on.

'Through here,' Lestrade enters the room ahead of them and nods to the small forensics team gathered there. They glance towards Sherlock with expressions varying from resentful to respectful, and back out, one of them muttering something to Lestrade on the way.

John and Sherlock stop in the doorway.

John stares. Blinks.

'Is that –?' he begins quietly,

'The girl from the hospital,' Sherlock finishes. He is frowning, and suddenly glances towards the space where the window should be, as though expecting something outside it; several snowflakes drift through the hole, blown by an icy breeze which makes John pull his coat tighter as a chill runs through him, not entirely caused by the draft.

'Sorry?' Lestrade looks from one to the other of them, a new edge of apprehension entering his eyes, 'do you know her?'

'We saw her at the hospital – outside Sherlock's room, she was...' John trails off, unsure what he was going to say anyway.

The girl, no more than nineteen years old, is propped into a sitting position against the wall, a little to the right of the window. One side of her straggly, blondish hair has caught some of the flakes fluttering through it. Her legs have been crossed, and but for the fact that her head is slumped limply forwards onto her chest, she looks as if she could have been simply sat waiting for their arrival. Her hands are folded in her lap, her hair hanging over her face.

She looks so _small_, and John has to fight a wave of sadness as he looks at her, certain that she met her death purely because he and Sherlock happened to spot her in a hospital full of other people. The cold presses in his chest, knowing that this choice of victim was very deliberate, and trying not to feel guilty.

'What time did the call come in?' Sherlock asks briskly, striding forwards and picking up the girl's hand, turning it over in his own and frowning at it in concentration.

'About...two hours ago,' Lestrade checks his watch. Sherlock nods, pushing the girl's sleeve back and peering at the vivid bruises across her forearms.

John watches Sherlock examine her with cold efficiency, tilting her chin up to reveal an ugly red mark around her neck, looking closely at her fingernails – broken but clean – and digging though her pockets. Empty.

'John?' Sherlock prompts after several minutes, standing and gesturing for John to take his place. Swallowing his feeling of responsibility, John forces himself to focus and examines her himself.

'Strangulation, probably,' he says, 'not just the marks on her neck, there's petechial haemorrhaging in her eyes as well...she fought, though. Those bruises are probably defensive...and her nails – but they've been cleaned, removed any evidence...'

'But?' Sherlock hints,

'But what?'

'Do you see any signs of a struggle?' Sherlock waves his hands vaguely around the room. Though essentially empty, leaving nothing to be disturbed even if there _had_ been a struggle, John can see what Sherlock is getting at; the only marks in the dust are very deliberate footprints, a little scuffed and misshapen, but not marks that would indicate any sort of fight – and only their own and, presumably, the culprit's prints – none small enough to belong to the girl.

'She was killed elsewhere and left here,' John says thoughtfully, 'but – why?'

Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but a dull thud from somewhere overhead interrupts him.

'What was that?' John asks automatically, looking up.

'Probably just –' Lestrade starts,

'Shut up,' Sherlock demands suddenly, holding a hand up for silence and turning quickly on the spot, peering around, listening intently. Something creaks loudly. 'Move,' he says, spinning back around and grabbing John's arm, pulling him to his feet –

'What are you –?'

'Move, move, _MOVE_!' he yells, steering John around, shoving him towards the door and dragging Lestrade along with them, 'everyone _out_!' he shouts to house at large, '_NOW_, everyone, move!'

He hurries towards the staircase, letting go of Lestrade but pushing John in front of him as another creak echoes through the building. It's followed by a further crack and thud, the sound of something falling – several more things follow; John can feel the floorboards quiver with the force of it. Understanding in a single terrifying moment what is happening, he puts on a burst of speed and shouts out his own warning, closing his hand around Sherlock's wrist and pulling him along –

A chunk of ceiling falls through and narrowly misses John's head, bursts of plaster dust clouding the air as they rush towards the door –

John, Sherlock and Lestrade lurch, coughing, into the street, in time to turn and see the last of the roof cave in, sending a rush of dust and rubble billowing from the door and windows.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.**

**AN: This was a **_**very**_** difficult chapter to write...**

Silence reigns for what feels like a very long time as they stand in the aftermath of the collapse. John's throat is burning as his coughs subside; his eyes are stinging from the dust. He blinks rapidly and stares at the wreckage, Sherlock and Lestrade beside him. Belatedly, he realises he is still holding onto Sherlock's wrist, and relinquishes his grasp. Sherlock does not react, his eyes fixed on the building with an expression of deep foreboding on his face.

Lestrade is the first to speak.

'You okay?' he directs at the pair of them, turning away from the house; John nods distractedly. Sherlock doesn't reply; the only change in his countenance is that his frown deepens even further.

'Anderson?' shouts Lestrade, looking around, 'Donovan?'

'Over here, Sir!' John and Lestrade both glance towards the voice. It's Donovan who spoke, and both she and Anderson are standing a good ten feet away with expressions on their faces that mirror John's own shock, otherwise relatively unscathed.

'Clark? Hopkins?' Two more shouts respond. Clark is sporting a gash across his left arm and Hopkins is still coughing violently, but both have managed to avoid the worst of the falling rubble. Lestrade moves away, calling more names as he goes and checking everyone made it out okay. John turns to Sherlock,

'I take it there's no point asking if that was coincidence?' he asks, only a touch of hope in his voice because he already knows what the answer will be. Sherlock shakes his head and, finally, looks at John.

'Are you alright?' he ignores John's question, eyes raking over the doctor closely.

'I'm fine,' John assures him with a tight smile, which quickly vanishes. 'Are you?'

'Of course I am...' Sherlock mutters distractedly, suddenly turning on the spot and surveying the street. Previously deserted save for the police, a number of curious residents are now poking their heads out of various doors and windows to see what's going on.

'This was a trap, wasn't it?' John tries again, his voice grim. Sherlock nods and hums quietly in agreement, eyes narrowed. 'Have you got any more idea who might be behind it?' He tries and fails to keep the impatience from his voice as he waits for Sherlock to respond. 'Sherlock? Are you going to answer any time soon, or shall I come back later?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replies eventually, his gaze returning to John, 'it was a trap. Whoever this is, they're getting desperate; there must have been at least a dozen people in that building, and they obviously had no problem with anyone getting caught in the crossfire.' _And yet were clearly not squeamish about outright murder – and more than capable of cleaning up any evidence..._

John doesn't have time to respond before Lestrade is back with them, looking harried.

'Did everyone get out?' John asks, concerned, while Sherlock continues to survey the street.

'Everyone except Bradstreet and Forbes,' Lestrade replies, 'I got radio contact with Bradstreet, he's still inside but he's conscious and apparently not badly injured, just stuck. Can't get through to Forbes – the fire crew are on their way.'

'Excellent,' mutters Sherlock distractedly. A small crowd of onlookers have started to gather, milling curiously a short distance away. Some are pulling out mobile phones tentatively, some shaking their heads and tutting about dangerous buildings being left without renovation. Still others seem to be taking photographs; Sherlock narrows his eyes at one man in particular.

'Are you even listening?' Lestrade asks irritably, scowling at Sherlock.

'I'll be no help here,' Sherlock replies, half turning towards Lestrade, still watching the crowd. 'Coming, John?'

'You're just leaving?' Lestrade interjects, a note of disbelief in his voice.

'Yes – John?' Sherlock replies impatiently.

'I –' John hesitates, glancing between Sherlock and the ruined house behind them.

'My staying here won't serve any purpose. Any useful evidence is buried in there, and there are more than enough people for a search party – I need to follow a lead,' Sherlock says quickly, evidently itching to get moving. John nods grimly in understanding, but makes no move to follow Sherlock.

'I might be able to help; I should stay,'

'Fine. I'll see you back at the flat, then.'

'Sherlock – for God's sake, be _careful_,'

'Yes, John,' Sherlock says; he doesn't roll his eyes, but he might as well have. With a last quick nod and another visual sweep of the street, he turns on his heel and starts towards the crowd. For a split second, his eyes meet those of his target – a tall, broad black man glaring sullenly at the scene before him. Then the man turns and begins pushing his way roughly through the crowd.

Sherlock quickens his pace, dodging with cat-like agility through the growing throng. Tall though he is he still has to jump and crane his neck to see far enough to keep his eyes on his target. It's pointless to be cautious now; the man knows he is being followed. Even without pausing to apologize to those he shoves unceremoniously out of his path, Sherlock's progress is slow – too slow. He's falling too far behind –

'_Out of my way_!' he shouts in frustration. Some people scatter; others become more obstinate still, deliberately holding him up now with stupid, pointless, _boring_ lectures about what on Earth he thinks he's doing. He resorts to calling 'police!' and holding Lestrade's badge out in front of him. He moves too quickly for it to be read, but they seem to get the message, and as he moves out onto the open street, far fewer objections are raised.

But now he's lost sight of the man. The road is almost deserted; Sherlock passes few cars and even fewer pedestrians, which should make the culprit much easier to spot, but still Sherlock cannot see him. He slows to a walk, catching his breath, ready to spring into action at the slightest notice of something suspicious. His eyes dart left and right ceaselessly, searching...

He turns a corner – there! He doesn't run this time, keeping a reasonable distance between himself and his prey, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible so that the man isn't alarmed into another flight.

So focused is he on the chase that Sherlock barely notices the increasingly sparse population of the streets. The few people already out on Christmas day gradually peter into the distance, and soon Sherlock and his target are the only two in sight. Sherlock drops back, deliberately slowing his pace and looking at the ground, hands thrust deep into his pockets with every appearance of the tired, solitary walker. He chances a look upwards every few steps to keep track of his quarry, and listens hard for any change in the pace or direction the man might make.

If not the actual culprit for the murder, Sherlock is almost certain that this man is responsible for at least ensuring the ruin of the building. Possibly he set a minor explosive – the first thud that Sherlock heard – to trigger the collapse. It does not particularly matter to Sherlock at the moment _how_ the collapse was rigged – only that it was. How it happened is of no importance unless it can lead him to the perpetrator, which he very much doubts. This man is probably in the employ of another, anyway...possibly he had very little idea who or what he was actually targeting...

Lost in his train of thought, Sherlock almost forgets to look up; he has been following by ear alone for several minutes. When he lifts his eyes from the pavement he finds himself – _how unoriginal _– in a small, dark side street. The walls of the buildings either side are tall and sheer save for a single cracked, plastic drainpipe on one and a battered blue door on the other. The dirty red brick is splattered with graffiti, the new slightly brighter and more discernible than the old it has painted over. Sherlock thinks he recognises Raz's work.

The suspect has stopped, only three or four metres away, and is facing Sherlock.

'Masser Holmes,' he says, 'you ain't followin' me, are you?'

'Would I be likely to find anything, if I was?' Sherlock asks in reply. The man's expression twitches irritably at this nonchalant response, and he – unconsciously, it seems – balls a fist at his side.

'Now see here, Masser Holmes –'

'Are you about to threaten me off the case?' Sherlock interrupts, with a somewhat bored sigh, 'you really ought to save your breath; I assure you it won't work.'

'You don't know who you're dealin' with,' says the aggressor in the same low growl.

'Not yet, no,' Sherlock admits amicably enough, 'care to save some time and tell me?'

'You ain't –'

'Oh leave it,' Sherlock snaps. 'If I don't back off something terrible will happen to me – have a little originality.'

'Might not happen to you – might be that doctor friend of yours.'

Sherlock advances without thinking, his eyes flashing dangerously, 'leave him alone.'

'Touched a nerve?' the man jeers. Sherlock takes a breath and schools expression to impassivity once more. It takes more effort than it should.

'Who hired you?' he asks simply, 'who's behind this?'

'I ain't hardly gonna tell _you_, am I?'

'Trust me; it will save you as much trouble as me if you do. I will find out, either way.'

'Well then why'd you need me tellin' you? Ain't gonna do me no good going bleatin' to the likes of you.'

'Any,'

'What?'

Sherlock sighs. 'Any,' he repeats, 'it isn't going to do you _any_ good.'

'Well then what's the point in me riskin' my neck for it?' he demands roughly; Sherlock rolls his eyes with impatience.

'Very well; I'm sure I can find out myself, and the police will certainly be interested to hear about the Perkins assault.' With this, Sherlock turns and starts to walk away, but the man grabs his arm and tugs him around –

'What d'you think you know about that?' he growls, 'you don't know nothing!'

'_Anything_,' Sherlock corrects irritably, 'but if you expect to keep your activities private, Steve Dixie, bare-knuckle boxing is not the one I would chose to participate in.' He glances loftily at the grazes across the back of the man's hands, and the old bruise covering most of the left side of his face.

'How'd you know my name?'

'Process of elimination,' Sherlock replies evasively, pulling his arm away from Dixie's grip with a look of distain.

'Ain't worth my skin to tell you noth – anything,' Dixie hisses, 'you ain't got no proof on Perkins. I wasn't nowhere near when that went down!'

'We'll see,' Sherlock steps away again, but Dixie grabs for him a second time. Sherlock swats his hand away and Dixie throws a punch wildly, catching Sherlock lightly as he dodges, but it hurts nevertheless. Sherlock kicks out, hard – Dixie reels back, and Sherlock turns on his heel, his coat swirling around his legs as he strides back out of the alley. Dixie is left spluttering angrily and glaring, but doesn't try to follow.

* * *

><p>By the time Sherlock arrives back at Baker Street, John is already there, sat jiggling his leg restlessly in the red armchair. When the door opens, he jumps up and starts towards Sherlock instantly, his expression radiating concern.<p>

'What the hell happened?' he demands, gesturing at Sherlock's bruised face, relief surging through him despite the injury.

'What? Nothing,' Sherlock replies, waving a hand dismissively, 'he spotted me following him, wasn't too pleased.'

'For God's sake...remind me never to confiscate your phone again.'

'I was going to suggest the same thing,' Sherlock replies, not really paying attention. He paces the room agitatedly. He runs a hand through his hair, frowning in concentration and muttering under his breath; a constant stream of words more to himself than to John. '...probably doesn't even know who his employer is, probably the bottom of the chain – prevent anything leading back to whoever's behind it all...clever – is it clever? But they've got to make a mistake; they always do...and why commit one murder to bait another? Why not just come after me in the first place?'

'Right,' John says suddenly, not sure whether his irritation comes from Sherlock's disregard of his own safety, or that of others. 'Forbes and Bradstreet are fine, by the way,' he continues tightly, for want of anything else to justify his interruption.

'Hmm?' Sherlock stops pacing for a moment, glancing round,

'The two men who were trapped in that building; the ones who could have died, just like you could have. In case you cared, they're both out.'

'Right, yeah, good...' Sherlock mutters distractedly. John sighs and shakes his head, gritting his teeth in irritation but deciding against pressing the point while Sherlock continues to talk, still seemingly to himself. 'Even if we could find out who his employer is...there are probably almost as many criminals working independently as there are under Moriarty's thumb – how are we supposed to work out which ones are which?'

'Check for the Dark Mark?' John suggests carelessly as he shrugs and sits down, folding his arms.

'What?' Sherlock snaps at the interruption to his thoughts, stopping and giving John an irritably nonplussed look. John shakes his head,

'Nothing. Never mind.'

Sherlock paces in silence and John tries to interest himself in yesterday's newspaper, but more often than not simply finds himself following his flatmate's restless movements up and down the room.

'Phone,' Sherlock announces, stopping suddenly almost half an hour later. John, who has finally been able to spend a full twenty seconds staring at the words of the news article without distraction (though without taking them in, either), looks up and frowns. 'Phone,' Sherlock repeats, 'I need my phone – MRS HUDSON!' he roars suddenly. There's a thud from downstairs as though their landlady has dropped something in surprise, and moments later they hear her hurrying up the steps. Sherlock strides across the room and rips the door open as she reaches it.

'Sherlock –' she starts,

'I need my phone. Now.' He swings the door closed in her face again and lets several seconds pass before he shouts again impatiently – '_PHONE!'_

'Give her a chance, Sherlock,' John warns, folding the newspaper and putting it aside slowly, 'what's going on? Have you worked something out?'

'Shinwell Johnson,' Sherlock replies, going to open the door again – John, sensing another outburst about to come, lays a placating hand on Sherlock's arm,

'She'll be as fast as she can,' he says, 'who's Shinwell Johnson?'

'Contact,' Sherlock replies shortly, 'ex-con, useful to have around occasionally. Inside pair of eyes.' His words are spoken quickly, his tone clipped, as though lamenting the wasted energy put into explaining.

'So have you any idea of who's actually behind –?'

'No. Not yet. That's why I need Johnson.' At the sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps outside the door again he pulls it open sharply and seizes his mobile from her hand, immediately turning and focusing all his attention on the little screen, thumbs working so fast across it that they are almost blurs.

'Thanks,' John says quietly to Mrs Hudson, half an eye on Sherlock's back. Mrs Hudson shakes her head,

'Don't you worry about it. Just make sure you find whoever this is, and make sure he gets some rest while you're at it! It's not good, all this running around, he'll do himself a mischief one of these days, one he won't be able to get himself out of.' Her kindly face is crinkled in concern as she, too, watches Sherlock, and John gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

'I'll do my best,' he replies.

'Oh, I know you will, doctor,' she smiles at him, 'don't know how he managed before you came along – but mind you take care of yourself while you're at it, it wouldn't do to have either of you collapsing. I'll go get his laptop, too, shall I?' She adds; John nods.

'Probably best,' he tells her, turning back to Sherlock as she leaves.

'I need information,' says Sherlock, sweeping his arms across the coffee table. Stacks of paper and abandoned mail are sent fluttering to the floor. A single mug clatters and rolls across the carpet, cold tea spilling across John's day old newspaper. John forces himself to bite his tongue, hoping that none of the now tea-soaked envelopes contain anything important. Sherlock snatches a map from the bookshelf and spreads it across the table. He digs into a draw, pushing aside broken pens and other detritus until he comes to a pack of small, round, coloured stickers, which he throws on top of the map.

'Locations,' Sherlock tells John, now rifling through the other draws hurriedly. 'Any of these –' he starts to toss files over, somehow managing to aim perfectly at John without once looking up.

'What are you looking for?'

'Anything,' Sherlock replies, 'everything. Lay all the information out – then we'll decide which bits are important. We can't afford to overlook anything.'

John opens his mouth, discovers he has nothing to say, and closes it again. Sherlock is rushing about the room with boundless energy, his eyes bright, intense, almost – wild. _The game is on_. John tries to stop himself thinking it, but can't – this is life for him as much as for Sherlock. He opens the little pack of stickers, and places a single white circle over the location of the crash.

'Labels?' he asks suddenly, hand halfway towards a pen.

'Hmm – what?'

'Labels; am I labelling these?'

Sherlock glances up. 'You might as well – laptop!' He jumps clear over a chair on his way to wrench the door open one more and snatches the computer from Mrs Hudson's hands, not bothering with a thank you. He leaves the door wide open as he strides away again, already opening it and tutting impatiently while it loads. John looks up to thank Mrs Hudson in Sherlock's stead, but she shakes her head with a somewhat indulgent smile, and pulls the door closed quietly behind her as she leaves.

_Okay_. John looks back at the map. White for the crash. He pulls another sheet from the box – red this time – scoops up the topmost file from the stack on the floor, and continues with his task in silence. He is deliberately very careful not to interrupt Sherlock, who is now typing frantically on his laptop. Every so often Sherlock lets out an exclamation of surprise, delight or disappointment – John can't tell which.

Some fifteen minutes later, John stands back with a frown on his face. There are far too many stickers on the map for his comfort, in various clusters, with particular colours grouping together to denote their respective criminal's preferred hunting ground. The single white dot stands out vividly from the rest, and there are more blue marks than there is any other colour – blue signifies Moriarty. Red is Epps. Green – appropriately enough – John has chosen for the emerald theft in which Sherlock suspects James Ryder. Many of the smaller crimes are overlapped with blue stickers, where a connection with Moriarty is suspected but not – technically – proven.

'Are you finished?' For some reason, Sherlock's voice startles John and he jumps, whipping his head around so fast he cricks his neck. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

'Almost,' he replies, rubbing his neck and wincing; Sherlock strides over quickly and takes the pack of stickers from him. 'I wasn't sure –'

'This is where I followed Dixie to,' Sherlock cuts him off, pressing another white sticker onto the street that was the scene of his most recent confrontation with a criminal. 'That's the latest murder victim. We can assume both are connected to the crash until we have evidence that tells us otherwise; it seems highly likely.'

John nods and labels them appropriately in handwriting as small as he can make it while still being readable. The map is definitely looking rather overcrowded; Sherlock stands back with his hands resting on his hips, studying the layout of the markers thoughtfully. John watches Sherlock for any sign of him working something out, and sees none – his heart seems to beat faster even in the (relative) safety of the flat at the mere prospect of just how many enemies Sherlock and he have probably managed to make over the months. The idea of the danger doesn't deter him in the slightest – quite the opposite – but he wishes Sherlock would show a little more concern for himself.

'Our attention should be focused on Moriarty and Epps,' Sherlock mutters eventually. John isn't sure if he is talking to himself or not, and doesn't reply. 'Ryder is a thief, and a ruthless one – assault would be nothing new to him, but he's no murderer...unless Moriarty is involved with him, of course, but still it would be more productive to focus on the Queen of the hive than the workers...'

John snorts with laughter, 'did you just refer to Moriarty as a "Queen"?' he asks incredulously; Sherlock turns his most disparaging look on him and replies in a tone dripping with contempt,

'Yes, John, it's a perfectly sound analogy. I fail to see why you find it so amusing. The hierarchical structure of bees is more than similar enough for –'

'Yeah, I get it,' John interrupts, stifling his smile, 'sorry.' Sherlock sniffs with disapproval – though John is sure his lips quirk into what might almost be a smile – and turns back to the map.

'Of course, any one of these crimes could have Moriarty at the head of them – then again perhaps to follow the trail up might prove more successful than to go straight to him...'

Certain Sherlock is merely thinking aloud and that no input is actually required, John makes to pick up on the thicker files from where they have been abandoned on the floor, and make a more in depth study of it, when Sherlock's phone chirps in a new text. John barely has a chance to glance up at Sherlock questioningly before the detective has waved a hand towards the offending object and John, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, opens the text.

'From Shinwell Johnson,' he says, 'he wants to know where to concentrate his search.'

Sherlock doesn't answer straight away, and John is on the verge of repeating the question, when he finally looks up as though only just hearing, 'tell him I need as much information as possible. Anything he thinks might be relevant – no matter how distantly. If he needs a starting point, try concentrating on underground boxing organisations – that sort of thing – see if he can sniff Dixie out.'

John nods as he types and sends the text, too used to acting as Sherlock's personal messenger to voice any complaint, or even particularly notice what he's nodding to. He returns to Sherlock's side when he's finished.

'Sherlock?' he begins quietly; Sherlock jerks his head slightly to the side, not so much looking at John before concentrating back on the map, but at least acknowledging that he has spoken. There is a familiar brightness in his eyes and a tightness in his frame that John knows to associate with the thrill of the chase. He knows it is, to some extent, mirrored in his own image – but he swallows the thought. Sherlock's safety is more important.

'Sherlock,' he tries again, more firmly this time, slipping his hand into the detective's.

'What?'

'Just...' he stops. It sounds ridiculous to say – this is their _life_, but...he can't help it. He doesn't have Sherlock's ability to detach from these situations.

'Just what?' Sherlock prompts, his voice caught between impatience and a gentleness that unnerves John more than the careless disregard it usually holds.

'Just...don't forget how dangerous this is.'

'It's always dangerous,' Sherlock replies, 'you've never been bothered before.'

'It's not usually personal,' John counters levelly, 'we're normally just caught in the crossfire – someone else is usually the actual target, and –'

'I've already told you, John – knowing about the threat makes us safer, not more at risk. What do you expect me to do, abandon the case?' Sherlock demands roughly,

'No, of course not. All I mean is...never mind. Forget it. I'm allowed to worry about you, though,' he manages a small smile, weak and forced though it is, 'you've already almost died once.'

'I've almost died considerably more than once,' Sherlock replies casually. John opens his mouth irritably to argue the point, but Sherlock gets there first, 'I know perfectly well what you meant.'

'Reverse the positions, then,' John says, 'what if it was me they were targeting?'

_...might not happen to you – might be that doctor friend of yours..._

Sherlock squeezes John's hand lightly.

'We've never been beaten yet,' he replies firmly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.**

**AN: We are nearing the end now...only three chapters left after this one. Which was rather awkward to write...semi-consciousness is **_**very**_** hard to pull off, while making it make sense. With that in mind, an even bigger thank you than normal to my beta, ****prettybirdy979****, who sits through my nonsense run-on sentences so you don't have to.**

It's gone midnight by the time John concedes defeat. In danger of falling asleep on the sofa again as he squints with tired eyes at the endless stack of files, he announces that he is going to bed. Sherlock nods and offers him a cursory 'goodnight' but doesn't follow. He alone seems able to stave off the call of sleep while he adds notes and arrows to the map that is rapidly becoming completely obscured by a combination of stickers and handwriting.

In truth, Sherlock is no closer to knowing precisely who is targeting them. However, he is at least consolidating the facts he does have at his disposal into one record. Once he is able to view all the evidence as a single entity, he hopes that patterns will begin to emerge from this jumbled mess. At the moment it's so...disconnected. This bothers Sherlock more than he cares to admit. The crash he can take easily in his stride, though the – the inelegance, of such a method, niggles at him for reasons he can't pin down. The collapse, though...why would someone who clearly has no compunction at murdering a presumably innocent teenager then balk at tackling Sherlock directly? It doesn't _fit_.

He passes into early morning on a fiery rush of adrenalin that fuels his mind as much as his body, and the minutes trickle by without him noticing. He is much too intent on the work at hand to care about something as mundane as _sleep_...

Nevertheless, Sherlock's eyes eventually begin to itch with tiredness. After the building collapse and the chase with Dixie, both so soon after being released from hospital, his body is making its exhaustion known. He rubs them irritably, refusing to succumb to such a boring and useless weakness. He applies himself with that much more effort to his task.

Two in the morning comes and goes...three...

Sherlock's eyes slip closed – just for a moment – and he hears Moriarty's voice hissing at him in the darkness...

_Burn the _heart_ out of you_...

He snaps his eyes open again, frustrated with himself for giving in for even a second. He's being ridiculous, of course. John will be fine...he'll be _fine_; Sherlock is the one they are after...

But what if John gets caught in the crossfire?

_John is more than capable of looking after himself, he won't_ –

But he _might_, and the thought makes Sherlock cold with dread, he forces himself to concentrate – Epps's first killing was...where again?

_Tired_...

No, keep working – Sherlock checks his watch absently, barely noticing the hands creeping towards four o'clock. He ignores the residual ache – the first time he has really noticed it – of his injuries from the crash. His leg throbs dully and his head hurts, but he pushes it away. It's not important, it doesn't matter...

_A blurry image of John's drawn, terrified face. Injured – John must be injured –_

No – stay awake, this is stupid; you need to _work_.

Noticing something strange in the file he's reading, he pulls a second one towards himself, blinking heavily...surely a coincidence?

But his eyelids are heavy, a different kind of exhaustion to the one he experienced after the crash but barely easier to resist...

No. It can't be coincidence, there's a third. It's too much, they must be connected...but none of these are even suspected of being linked to Moriarty. Is his reach even further than they thought?

_...Burn the _heart_ out of you..._

Stay _awake_...

Perhaps it's someone else, some other organisation. Or maybe Sherlock's fatigue is beginning to affect his judgement, and they aren't really connected at all...

_...might not happen to you – might be that doctor friend of yours..._

Need to work, concentrate...and he _knows _Dixie was involved with this one, he'll have to have a closer look there...yes, he needs to check...

But not right now. Just a moment – he'll just close his eyes for a moment...

_That's what people _DO_!_

They snap open again, but droop closed almost immediately. Muffled noises and indistinct shapes swirl oddly around him. He's half conscious, struggling against the pull of sleep. _He's dreaming..._no, no, he's on the sofa, he can feel the sofa, and the paper on his lap...

The paper slips off, but Sherlock's limp fingers make no move to retrieve it. Is that voice real, or imaginary? Is he waking or sleeping?

Waking, he thinks. He's awake; he knows he's awake, because he can hear the clock ticking. Now if he could only make his eyes open...

But the ticking is wrong. It's too loud and it echoes, but this room is too small and cluttered for that...

He can hear the tap dripping...

But no, that's not the tap. It is water though, sort of...lapping? Rhythmic, like waves, only without the rush and roar behind it, and that noise echoes too...somewhere he hears footsteps. Maybe John has woken up. Is it morning already? Except now they've faded, and the surroundings that were slowly solidifying around him have melted, reformed...

John's face swims in front of him, so close, smiling softly...

The image changes; it jerks back as though pulled away and morphs again. Now Mycroft; stupid, interfering Mycroft...now Anderson, scowling and muttering. Now John again; laughing, now frowning, now shouting. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson; John again, Angelo, John, Mycroft, John...

_...I have been reliably informed that I don't have one_.

It's his voice speaking now, but he doesn't remember moving his lips. He's still vaguely aware of being sat down, though he can't seem to actually feel the sofa. Then Moriarty's smirk – _we both know that's not quite true_ – and a chill, bone deep. It's unfamiliar and disturbing, almost – _almost_ like fear, almost like something more, like panic.

_Stop his heart_ – he hears John's voice, John but _not_ John, very much not John, but he can't _see_ him, the dark pool is empty...

_...Oh, let me guess, I get killed..._so dull and boring and predictable he can't even keep the exasperation from his voice...

_Don't want to be obvious..._

_Saving it up for something _special_...burn you..._

_...You think I've played this game just to kill you now? _And Sherlock is impressed, and this – Moriarty, the puzzles, all of it, is so _interesting_, so _fascinating. _But John is here; John is in danger and his own violent reaction to that fact scares him as much as the knowledge itself...

_If I wanted you dead, my dear, you already would be ..._

There's another noise behind him – a footstep, a voice, a breath – any, all, what does it matter? He turns weightlessly, seeming to drift more than step, and all he can see is faces, two faces. One has dark, glittering eyes and a serpent's smirk. The other is stubborn and earnest and _alive_. And then there's a gun, and Moriarty has the gun, and he's pointing it, he's pointing it at _John_. John is between them, Sherlock and his nemesis, and he could just duck, _please _just duck.

Moriarty is moving slowly, so slowly. He knows that John won't move because that would leave Sherlock in the firing line but please, _please – _and Sherlock calls out, but now he can't seem to take a step, he's paralyzed. He's stuck here, frozen to the spot and they're too far away, and Moriarty is laughing...laughing...

* * *

><p>'<em>NO<em>!' Sherlock sits bolt upright, the shout escaping his lips as he jerks awake with the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Taking deep breaths and peering around the room frantically, reality begins to set in. The silence of the flat, altogether much more welcome than the silence of the pool, presses on his ears and calms him slowly. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands, trying without avail to delete the images from his mind. They remain stubbornly, vividly pressed in front of his eyes whether he opens or closes them. The echoes of Moriarty's voice; the gunshot, reverberating around his head...

'Sherlock?' John's tentative, sleep-blurred voice calls, puzzled. Sherlock doesn't reply, but relief – ridiculous, irrational relief, because it was a _dream_ and John is _fine_ – surges through him with such overwhelming power he feels weak with it.

'Are you alright?' John asks nervously, moving further into the room. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, papers scattered around him, on the floor, on the table – some crumpled where he fell asleep on them. In the dim, grey dawn light, Sherlock's figure looks tense as though ready for flight at a moment's notice, and he is breathing heavily. He still doesn't look up, even when John sinks onto the sofa beside him and lays a hand on his arm. 'Sherlock?'

Still, there is no reply, but Sherlock's breathing becomes more even, his muscles more relaxed, the instant John's hand touches him. _He's okay, it's okay, he's okay..._

'Bad dream?' John tries again.

'John,' Sherlock manages to say, slightly breathlessly. It's the same sort of forced tone as when he first saw John at the pool. He finally looks up and takes in John's face – _he's here, he's here, he's here_...

'You should go,' Sherlock replies quietly, the words costing him exhausting effort.

'If you mean back to bed, I agree,' says John, knowing perfectly well what Sherlock meant. 'Other than that – no, I shouldn't.' His voice is friendly enough, despite the early hour and impromptu wake-up call, but Sherlock doesn't miss the underlying stubborn determination. It makes him smile, just a little, though he doesn't know why, and the expression vanishes as quickly as it came. He forces himself to look at John.

'You should,' Sherlock repeats, sounding puzzled, 'I should tell you to go.'

John frowns. Sherlock's face, especially in the semi-darkness, looks thin and drawn. His eyes have dark shadows beneath them, but they themselves are as bright as ever. They have lost nothing, they miss nothing, and John knows that _Sherlock_ knows, that he's not going anywhere. 'But you aren't going to, are you?' he says gently, somewhere between a question and a statement.

'No,' Sherlock's voice is thoughtful. 'You wouldn't even if I told you to, would you?'

'Not a chance.'

'I thought so.' He pauses, 'it's dangerous.'

'You know, oddly enough, that had already crossed my mind,' John replies lightly, teasing the tiniest of almost-smiles from Sherlock. 'I thought I was the one meant to be reminding you of that.'

'Selfish,' Sherlock murmurs. John's slight frown deepens,

'What's selfish?'

'You are.'

John shakes his head, 'you've lost me.'

'If we were...' Sherlock stops, thinks. He tries not to remember the frozen panic of the dream. John tries not to let the uncharacteristic hesitation get to him. 'If your life was in danger, and the only way to save it was for you to endanger mine, would you do it?'

'Of course not!' John replies instantly, and Sherlock nods.

'_Selfish_,' he insists again.

'I'm sorry, but how is that selfish?' John asks, nonplussed. He assumes this has something to do with Sherlock's dream. At least, the dream he is assuming Sherlock had, since no mention of one has actually been made – and he has had quite enough of the guesswork.

'Because!' Sherlock exclaims fiercely, jumping suddenly to his feet and pacing for a few moments before forcing his voice to steady again. There is a rushed urgency to it John has only ever really seen associated with the feverishly exited explanations of cases before. 'If you had to sacrifice yourself to save me, you would do it?'

'Yes,' John replies, without having to think. Sherlock's agitation grows.

'People assume that doing something like that is self_less_ – but if you were killed in the attempt, it's over for you then isn't it? You haven't got to live with guilt or grief or any of that nonsense, it's just..._finished_. You're out. And the other person is left behind to deal with everything. _Selfish._'

'In which case, I promise I won't die trying to save you,' John answers carefully, 'as long as you promise not to put yourself in any situations where you'll need it. Short of that, I can't help, I'm afraid.'

Sherlock sighs, energy seeming to drain out of him as he does, 'John...'

'Forget it. We'll carry on as we always have, and we'll figure something out. It's fine,' John assures Sherlock, squeezing his hand reassuringly. The absurdity of it being _him_ who is having to convince _Sherlock_ of their safety is not lost on him, though he struggles not to let it unsettle him. 'It'll be fine.'

And even though really, Sherlock knows John is wrong – there is no way he can guarantee the safety of either of them, let alone himself…Somehow, with the doctor beside him, the warmth of his hand closed around Sherlock's own cold fingers, he almost finds himself believing it.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is pacing. He has been pacing on and off for the past two hours, ever since he first texted Shinwell Johnson to demand an update, which still has not arrived.<p>

Two minutes after sending the message, Sherlock was huffing moodily every few seconds when he checked for a reply that had yet to come. After five minutes he was getting dangerously impatient – after a hundred and five it's all John can do to prevent him shooting something.

The map is still laid out on the table, dotted with its multi-coloured stickers. Various case files are scattered across the room, open, pages strewn haphazardly around with no apparent order to them. John knows better than to judge entirely by this appearance though. At first he had merely accepted there was a pattern he hadn't picked up on, knowing Sherlock as he does. Now he sees that they are gathered roughly into vague groups – not based on the perpetrator or location, but on their potential for helpful clues. Those Sherlock has deemed useful are always to the forefront, closer to the map itself.

Sherlock is walking over this mess now, seeming not to notice the papers crease and shift under his feet.

'Why isn't he _answering_?' he exclaims in frustration, for what must be at least the fiftieth time. 'He knows how important –' he stops abruptly at the sound of a soft tap on the door, leaping clean over the chair on his way to yank it open.

'Only me!' Mrs Hudson chimes unnecessarily, glancing across at John with a sympathetic look on her face. 'There's a man at the door for you dear –'

'Send him up,' Sherlock interrupts without bothering to ask after the man's identity. Mrs Hudson looks again to John, this time for confirmation – he nods and she hurries away dutifully. She has taken to forewarning them of visitors since learning of the threat against them. It seems – thankfully, John thinks – that she trusts the doctor's judgement over Sherlock's when it comes to matters of safety. Not that any of them truly believe a potential assassin would do anything quite so risky (and, in Sherlock's opinion, dull and obvious) as to walk right into the flat, after having revealed themselves to their landlady. Although John secretly thinks that even if they did try, they'd have a job getting past Mrs Hudson in the first place.

'Where have you been?' demands Sherlock by way of greeting when the small man shuffles in. He is a good couple of inches shorter than John, unshaven and loudly chewing gum with an expression of distinct distaste on his face. He eyes John with apparent suspicion; Sherlock gestures towards him impatiently, 'John Watson,' he says. John holds his hand out automatically, but the man ignores him.

'Name doesn't tell me who he is,' he grunts, sliding his dark gaze back to Sherlock, slowly.

'He's with me,' Sherlock replies shortly. John is reminded forcefully of his first introduction to Lestrade. He wonders vaguely just how many contacts Sherlock has built up over the years, and what – if anything – association with the Holmes brothers can fail to produce.

''Scuse precautions,' Johnson apologises gruffly, no change in his expression except a slight raising of his eyebrows which John cannot read, 'can't be too careful, my line of work.' He flops down onto the sofa, absently catching up a loose sheet of paper and peering at it quizzically for a moment. Sherlock surveys him harshly. 'Any chance of a cuppa?' he asks casually. Sherlock narrows his eyes, hands perched severely on his hips as he glares down at Johnson, who drops the paper. 'Sorry, sorry...' he waves his hands in a gesture of surrender, chewing his gum thoughtfully before speaking again.

'Fella you're after's got a place round here,' he jabs a stubby finger at the map, circling vaguely over an area about two miles wide, around the site of Sherlock's confrontation with Steve Dixie.

'Can you be a little more specific?' Sherlock says, more of a command than a question, at the same time as John asks 'did you actually _see_ him?' Sherlock spares John an approving glance before turning exasperatedly to their informant, who shrugs.

'Can't get too close can I?' John can't tell whose question this is an answer to and finds himself more than a little impressed with the – admittedly fragile – patience Sherlock is exhibiting. John himself is inches from physically shaking the information out of the little man. 'I start being too obvious about sticking my nose in other people's business, it'll get cut off. I'll blow my cover and be no use to anyone now will I? And I don't care how much you're paying me, it ain't worth crossing certain...interested parties.'

Sherlock's eyes blaze with sudden interest at Johnson's tone. John can almost see his ears prick up in expectation. Sherlock moves forward and pushes the clutter aside to better see the map.

'Which interested parties?' he asks quietly, the urgency evident in his voice. John is very still, watching the pair carefully. He knows, and Sherlock knows, that there is only one person who could strike such apparent fear into Johnson's voice. 'Give me a name, Johnson. I need a name.'

'I don't _know_ the name.'

'Oh don't be ridiculous, you wouldn't –'

'All I know is who _might_ be involved, and frankly only an idiot's gonna –'

'I pay you to find information, not make excuses,' Sherlock cuts him off irritably, 'what _exactly_ do you know?' Johnson settles himself further into the sofa and picks at his fingernails, doing his utmost to feign complete indifference, though John can see that Sherlock's persistence is unnerving him.

'That bloke Dixie's a hired man. Got some sorta hide out round where you tagged him to, far as I can tell. Been there a couple of times at least. Few others coming and going every so often. Big operation going on there, looks like, 'mount of visitors he's getting anyway. Hefty price on your 'ead, and no shortage of takers and all. No names, but I got a few faces – saw him there few times –' he points this time to a mug shot lying on top of an open case file.

'Any specific building? Street?' Sherlock presses,

'Listen, I'm not risking my neck for the pittance you're offerin' when I could –'

'So that's everything?'

'Well, I –'

'Yes or no?'

Johnson pauses sullenly, 'money's involved. Lots of it. You're getting too close to summat and they're not happy – sounds like that thing with whatsit-Epps was the last straw for someone. Someone powerful, like. Everyone's whispering and no one's sure who's doing what, it's all gone quiet – but sorta loud too, if you know what I mean. Everyone knows and no one knows.'

'I want facts, Johnson, not cryptic speculation,' Sherlock replies, though John sees the flash of something between intrigue and – when Sherlock's eyes flicker over to him – concern, even if Johnson misses it.

'Not speculation,' Johnson insists, 'not exactly hard to find out you've stepped on a few toes in your time, is it? Spread all over, this, talk everywhere 'bout it. Nothin' _specific_, like, just rumours you hear here and there, and a bloody lot of 'em, too. Don't really _know_ what's at the head of it, but it ain't hard to guess.'

Sherlock doesn't reply straight away, looking thoughtful. A frown creases his features, which are fixed on the map – but not really seeing it.

Johnson has told him little or nothing he didn't already know or suspect. Confirmation is always useful though, and in a way it is good to hear that these threats are part of something bigger. Organisations might in the long run be harder to tackle, but they are easier to track. It is simpler to unravel a chain of command than the motives of a desperate man acting alone.

'Is that it?' John asks, when Sherlock doesn't speak up, hoping he hasn't broken in on any profound train of thought. The look Johnson gives him is a shade below the grudging respect he shows to Sherlock, a shade above the expression he might wear if confronted with one of Sherlock's more nauseating experiments.

'Didn't exactly give me much chance, did you? Day's not gonna get you anything in this. I need more time than that if you expect me to find anything else.'

Sherlock takes a breath, as if to calm himself. 'Well find something and report back to me as soon as you do. Literally the instant you discover anything, I want to know about it.'

'I –'

'Go.'

'Now hang on, I been dragged up here to tell you this –'

'You haven't exactly told us much,' John interjects, and is rewarded with a contemptuous glance.

'I want paying,' Johnson says. He stands in what looks like an attempt to appear more intimidating, though it fails miserably as Sherlock towers over him. Sherlock pauses, then moves to grab his wallet from the pile of detritus swept from the table. Pulling out a few notes, he hands them grudgingly to Johnson, who opens his mouth to complain.

'You'll get the rest when you finish the job.'

'Now look –'

This time it's John who steps forward, and their spy stumbles in his haste to move towards the door.

'Gentlemen,' he bows his head with a sickeningly false smile, hurrying out of the flat without taking his eyes off of John.

'So it's Moriarty, then,' John says once they are alone again. He doesn't even attempt to keep the note of trepidation out of his voice.

'Quite possibly,' Sherlock replies, infuriatingly calmly. His expression is distant, and he is frowning thoughtfully. From the jumble of pieces in his head, a jigsaw is beginning to form, but he is working from the inside out, rather than having a framework in place first. There's too much margin for error.

'Does that actually change anything?'

'Probably not.'

'Then why do you look like you've seen a ghost?'

'What? I don't look like anything, John, I was thinking –'

'What was that dream about?'

'What are you talking about? What dream?'

'You've been on edge all day –'

'Well of course I have, in case it's escaped your notice we are both currently under threat for our lives. I thought that was something normal people were supposed to worry about, according to you?' Sherlock snaps, but John shakes his head.

'Exactly. _Normal_ people would, but we're talking about you, aren't we?' This almost manages to tease a smile from Sherlock. John steps forwards, automatically slipping his hands into Sherlock's, both of them seamlessly leaning so their foreheads touch gently. The action seems to calm Sherlock immeasurably. Tension he did not even know he was harbouring drains away and his mind is instantly much clearer. It is as though John has with his touch simply wiped away all the distractions that have been plaguing him since waking up.

'You were shot,' it's almost a whisper, but John hears it as clearly as if Sherlock had shouted. He doesn't need to ask what he is talking about. 'Moriarty shot you.'

'That's not going to happen,' John promises automatically. The soft noise Sherlock makes in response could be a laugh if not for the poorly veiled malice it contains. It frightens John – because it _doesn't_ frighten him.

'I know,' Sherlock replies dangerously, 'he wouldn't get the chance.'

'Was it...was it at the pool?' John ventures after a pause, because God knows how often he's revisited that night in his dreams, and something in him is comforted by the thought that he is not alone.

'Yes and no,' Sherlock replies tonelessly, 'we were at the pool, yes, and the general...situation, was the same. But it was different. He was holding the gun. And some of the things he said were –'

He stops, and a wide-eyed look of dawning realisation crosses his face. He leans back from John but doesn't release his hands, standing straight and staring into the distance,

'...different,' he finishes breathlessly, '_oh_!'

'What – what is it? You just worked something out didn't you? Is it him, are you –?'

Sherlock's face splits into a grin, 'yes,' he says, 'I just worked something out.'


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.  
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**AN: This chapter was originally twice as long, but I cut it in two; partly for length and partly because it worked better as separate chapters. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and/or added this story to their favourites or alerts. :)  
><strong>

'How did I not see it _before_?' Sherlock exclaims in frustration. He leaps back from John and dives to the file Shinwell Johnson pointed out to them, flicking through it urgently and resuming his agitated pacing.

'What's wrong?' John asks, 'Sherlock, what –?'

'This is what happens when you jump to conclusions before you have all the facts! All along we've just been assuming – how can I have been so stupid? It's obvious!'

'Sherlock, explain. Now.'

'What?' Sherlock turns back to John, frowning. 'Don't you _see_?'

'Why don't you just tell me?'

Huffing impatiently, Sherlock holds up the file and taps it as he speaks, 'Who said Moriarty was involved?'

'I – what do you mean?'

'Who was the first one who suggested that Moriarty was behind this?'

'I don't know – I – we all just –'

'_Assumed_,' Sherlock finishes triumphantly, 'exactly as they wanted us to.'

'Who are _they_?'

'_Not_ Moriarty.'

'Are you – you're sure about this?' John asks weakly, relief flooding through him. Even if Sherlock is right, that still means that _someone_...but not Moriarty. _Not Moriarty_. It won't quite sink in. Even though they never even had any proof anyway, the idea has taken such a strong hold in his mind…Are they really any better off now than they were? But – it's not him. That has to be good, it _has_ to be...

'What does it tell you when an assassin can't shoot straight?' Sherlock parrots General Shan's words. '_Either;_ they're not really trying, or they're just _really _bad at their job. Does either of those sound like Moriarty to you?'

_If I wanted you dead, you already would be …_

Moriarty in his dream, _that's_ why; that's what he was trying to tell himself. They've been blind all along. _He's_ been blind; stumbling around in the dark and making stupid, premature assumptions. 'We're too quick to attribute every little thing that happens to him. A car crash? A building collapse? Come on; it's clumsy. Too much could go wrong. Too much _has_ gone wrong, for them. Even with us making their job ten times easier by being nice and conveniently distracted the whole time, not even _considering_…If it had been Moriarty we'd both have died on the first attempt. Either they've managed to fool half the criminal world as well, or whoever it is packs one of hell of a punch. Johnson's an infuriating fool but he's good; he's never had so little to report before, _never_. If he's spooked by it then –'

'Slow down,' John breaks in abruptly. 'Just hang on a second – and for God's sake stop pacing! You're making me dizzy.' Sherlock pauses, mid stride, and looks up. His expression is startled, as though he had forgotten John was even in the room. 'You're saying Moriarty has had nothing to do with this?' John clarifies carefully, hardly daring to believe it and at the same time berating himself for making the mistake of taking Moriarty's involvement for granted in the first place. No one has ever said it _definitively_, he supposes. But every one of them, Sherlock included, has been looking much too closely in that direction to notice much else.

Sherlock shrugs, 'Nothing directly, though he probably would have known. I doubt much goes on in this city that he isn't aware of. It would have been a win-win for him anyway; either we're both killed and out of his way, or we're both too busy chasing our tails to notice him for a few weeks. Nice little smoke screen for him, don't you think? Oh, how can I have been such an _idiot_?'

Johns knows that the question is rhetorical and that to point out the fact that nobody else saw it either would be pointless. He ignores it and asks one of his own instead; 'so what now?'

'Data,' Sherlock replies quickly. He sits down and snaps his fingers, gesturing at the files strewn across the room. 'We need more data. Evidently there's some other organisation in this, or at least some sort of centre to it. I doubt it's even close to the size of Moriarty's but they must have left traces somewhere. If we can follow them back to the start –'

'We can find out who's behind it all,' John finishes for him, 'got it.'

'Remove anything we know Moriarty was involved in,' Sherlock instructs John, already peeling the blue stickers from the map. 'Get rid of those files. Keep the ones we aren't sure of. Move Ryder to the side. I suspect he isn't acting alone but Moriarty is the stronger player; if he's backed by anyone we can bet it's him...'

As he speaks, Sherlock shifts files around, adding and removing notes and stickers from the map so quickly John has trouble keeping up, and stops trying to. Instead, he concentrates on moving along at his own pace and tuning out the running commentary Sherlock keeps up.

Within twenty minutes over half of the files have been discarded. A good proportion of those that are left have been shifted to one side; those of criminals Sherlock is at least almost certain are acting alone. Sherlock is grinning.

'This is more like it,' he enthuses, '_this_ makes sense!'

'Does it?' John frowns. Admittedly there is far less information being presented to them now, but it's not information he finds any easier to make use of.

'Of course it does,' Sherlock responds disdainfully. 'Look here – and here –' he points at two different files, then pulls a third towards himself. 'Look at these transactions. Johnson was right; whoever this is has money but not a huge amount of sense. Who uses the same bank account for three different crimes? Surely they realise how easily that can be traced?' He sounds disappointed, which John can only take as a good sign. If he is already finding their pursuers boring, they must be onto something. 'And – _oh_,'

Sherlock glances up and John follows his gaze, which has fallen on the photograph that was beneath the third file. Sherlock's eyes have widened with recognition. The disappointment fades, to be replaced by a reluctant approval. He snatches the photo from the floor and studies it, but John still can't work out what's so impressive.

'Who is it?' he asks uncertainly, leaning forwards.

'Don't you recognise him?' Sherlock turns the picture around, holding it up for John to see. It's a headshot of a gaunt looking man with sunken eyes and dank, dirty blonde hair hanging down almost to his shoulders. A smattering of stubble covers his chin and his mouth is small and mean-looking. John stares for several seconds before shaking his head. There's _something_, just vaguely...but he can't place it. He's sure he's never seen the man before. But perhaps in the newspaper, or on television? Certainly not in person...

'_Look_, John!' Sherlock instructs exasperatedly, giving the file a shake.

'I take it you do?' John replies, bristling at Sherlock's impatience. Sherlock doesn't reply, but moves his hand awkwardly to cover the man's hair.

'My God!' John exclaims, seeing it for the first time. 'But that's – that can't be –'

'It is,' says Sherlock grimly. 'It's surprisingly easy to fashion a disguise out of just changing the colour of your hair, or growing a beard – or losing a little weight.'

'But that's the man from the hospital!' John gasps, 'we saw him, we _both_ saw him and neither of us –'

'Yes, thank you,' Sherlock interrupts curtly, looking momentarily stung. John realises what he's said, too late.

'I didn't mean – I meant _neither _of us – I wasn't suggesting you _should_ have –'

'You'd be right,' Sherlock sounds furious with himself. 'I should have seen; I should have known it wasn't genuine. He was right there in front of us!'

'You were still in hospital; you can hardly be expected to...'

'I should have seen it,' Sherlock repeats in a tone of finality. 'Shorter hair; dyed brown, clean shaven and better groomed – what difference does it make? Stupid, simple, _brilliant_ disguise...' John watches as Sherlock rifles distractedly through the file accompanying the photograph. After a few moments he tosses it carelessly to the floor and whips around, striding quickly from the room without a word of explanation.

'Sherlock – Sherlock what are you doing?' John demands as he hurries to follow. He hesitates only a moment as he considers looking through the file himself before deciding it would be better to try and extract the details from Sherlock. 'What have you found out? For crying out loud would you bloody slow _down_?'

'Barney Stockdale,' Sherlock says, the words coming in a rush of excitement and adrenalin as he slings his coat on. 'His address is practically in the centre of the area Johnson pointed out and he knows almost as much of what goes on in this city as Moriarty. He's never actually seized power for himself, he prefers to manipulate from lower down; smaller circles, less attention. You can bet he's not the head of whatever's going on but I guarantee you he knows something, and he's probably several rungs higher in the chain than Dixie. He's probably relaying orders or organising or – I can't theorise yet. I don't have the facts and we've made enough of those mistakes already. The point is; _we've got him_. He's the key to this. I just need to go over there and question him –'

'Stop right there,' John orders. To his surprise Sherlock acquiesces immediately, cutting off a little breathlessly from his hasty narrative. 'You're not suggesting that _we_ –'

'That I,' Sherlock corrects firmly, 'you're not coming.'

'That we,' John continues doggedly, 'go and interrogate him _ourselves_? Shouldn't we at least call Lestrade, or –'

'On what evidence? He was legitimately released from prison over a year ago and he only served two months then. He's hardly London's most wanted. So what if he was in the hospital? So were hundreds of other people. So were we.'

'But the girl – she was there too, she was murdered, he must have – it can't be coincidence –'

'Can't it? Legally, why not?'

'But if you tell Lestrade that _you_ think –' John tries a little desperately, clutching frantically at straws to keep Sherlock from marching off, alone, into who knows what sort of danger this time.

'I'm flattered you think I really have that much influence, John, but even if he believes me what can he do? He has to work within miles of red tape and paperwork. I don't.'

'Well then – what about – what about Mycroft?' The look Sherlock gives him silences any further suggestions in that vein, and John struggles for another excuse.

'You can't...you don't even know...he's tried to _kill_ you!'

'So did Moriarty. I met him. I survived.'

'Barely, and in case you hadn't noticed I wasn't all that happy then either. Not that you bothered to tell me before you wandered off to have your little meeting with him –'

'Oh for goodness sake, John! If I go now and question Barney Stockdale then I might end up with enough evidence to stop whoever is actually at the top of this, yes with a little risk in the process. If I don't then they'll keep trying and sooner or later they're bound to succeed. Comparatively I think this is the safer option, don't you?'

John is silent for a moment. Then, 'Fine,' he says grimly, 'fine.' He steps back and allows Sherlock to walk past, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he does. John picks up his own jacket.

'You aren't coming,' Sherlock tells him automatically.

'Then neither are you.'

'John –'

'I can argue about this all night,' John insists firmly. Sherlock scowls, quickly weighing the options in his head. It will be easier with John, but what if –? And yet if John stays here alone, or if he ventures out and tries to follow Sherlock afterwards, or – but at the same time...this is John.

_Could be dangerous_..._and here you are._

Sherlock knows him too well to think he'll ever agree to sit this out.

'You're an idiot,' Sherlock affirms reluctantly.

'So I gather.'

* * *

><p>John spends most of the journey in silence. He listens intently to Sherlock's animated explanation of Barney Stockdale's history, complete with frequent self-remonstrations for not having seen through the entire Moriarty-facade days ago. It seems clear enough now even to John that such clumsy crimes could never have been laid at Moriarty's door. He can't find himself attaching blame to anyone else for not seeing it sooner, though. Not that Sherlock will listen.<p>

The taxi ride passes in a rush of blurred images and hurried plans, all of them discarded, until John finds himself standing outside the door to Stockdale's flat with no real memory of how he got here. His heart is thundering in his chest with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. He knows, from the curiously frozen expression on Sherlock's face, that Sherlock is feeling the same.

'Have we got a plan?' John asks, feeling a familiar sort of battle calm settle over him. It is invigorating and soothing at the same time. Sherlock shrugs vaguely.

'Follow my lead.'

John nods tersely, and Sherlock presses the doorbell. They exchange a glance as the sound of movement comes from inside; a look of part warning, part anticipation. John finds himself holding his breath. What are they going to do? This man, this Barney Stockdale, knows who they are. He has seen them. He will recognise them the instant he answers – if he answers. It seems ridiculously risky to approach him so baldly. What is Sherlock expecting to _do_? Just stroll in, ask his questions and leave? Does _follow my lead_ mean that he has a plan himself, or that he's making it up as he goes along? John tenses, his hand poised to grab for the gun at his waist at a moment's notice.

The seconds are endless. Sherlock appears utterly calm. So does John, outwardly, and he wonders whether his own doubts are echoed behind Sherlock's mask or if Sherlock really is as confident as he looks.

He mentally catalogues the details of the street behind them. It's not busy, but not empty either. Whether the inhabitants are innocent civilians who will need protection should a fight break out (his hand twitches towards the gun, wishing he could have it ready) or whether they are lackeys of Stockdale's, remains a mystery. It is an unfriendly, imposing place, but a scattering of alleyways that look suitable for a hasty retreat are spread from one end to the other. John is confident that Sherlock will know exactly where each one comes out and which lead only to dead ends.

How he wishes he could see into Sherlock's head now; see what on Earth he is planning, so he could be ready...

They both get a shock when the door finally opens.

The woman on the other side is tall, but thin and elderly. She has a sort of proud frailty that takes John aback. She is standing at her full height, straight-backed and graceful, but squinting as though her eyesight is failing. She peers curiously at the pair on her doorstep with a nervous smile.

'Hello, dears, can I help you?' she asks, glancing between them expectantly. Sherlock immediately assumes a relaxed stance and a dazzling smile lights up his features. The warmth in his bearing throws John off balance, even though he knows he ought to be used to these rapid persona changes by now. He feels like an elastic band wound as tightly as it will go, then rather than being let go to spring outwards, simply cut and left hanging and useless.

'Hi, sorry to bother you – is Barney in?' Sherlock's voice is friendly and slightly higher than normal, softer. All of John's instincts are screaming at him in warning, and he glances at Sherlock in an attempt to silently convey his suspicions. Sherlock's eyes harden momentarily, though his expression barely changes; wordless confirmation that he has already reached the same conclusion.

Something is wrong.

'Oh, yes of course. Come along inside, he's just upstairs. I'll call him down.'

She ushers them in before they can protest, smiling and chivvying them along. She chatters about the weather or the holidays or some other nonsense John daren't pay too much attention to for fear of missing something in his surroundings. His eyes dart frantically around, too experienced to ignore the cold mistrust that's settled over him. He would have been more comfortable had Barney Stockdale himself answered the door with a gun already in his hand. It's the waiting, the unknown, that's the worst of it. It was the same in Afghanistan. If only he knows what he's meant to being doing, he's as focused as Sherlock. But something, _something_ is not how they thought. Or not how he thought. Is that triumph he sees in Sherlock's eyes?

'Now you just wait in here while I fetch him,' the old woman shows them into what looks like a cross between a neglected attic and an abandoned sitting room. It's untidy, disorganised and dimly lit. There's a threadbare sofa pushed up against the wall next to the door they came in through and a mess of overflowing boxes littered across the floor. A television with a cracked screen is nestled in the corner. The curtains are closed, and as soon as the woman has shut the door on her way back out John darts towards them and pulls them aside to see thick blinds drawn down as well. They effectively obscure the view through grimy windows of a tiny, untended garden.

'Sherlock –' John begins.

'I know,' is the tense reply. Sherlock is moving quickly around the room, delving in boxes and scanning the carpet, the ceiling. He runs his hands along the base of the windowsill, looking for bugs or bombs or God knows what. John has taken out his gun and is holding it with both hands, pointed at the floor, adrenalin pounding through his veins. Sherlock is pulling aside a box blocking access to a second door, in the wall opposite the window.

'Do you think – she's not –' John's voice is low and hurried, his gaze darting between both doors as Sherlock gives the moved box a cursory inspection. 'Do you think she's employed by Stockdale?' he asks doubtfully.

'Oh, no,' murmurs Sherlock with certainty. Then he looks up with his hand on the door handle, and John doesn't doubt it this time; there is definitely triumph in his eyes. 'I think _he_ is employed by _her_.' He pulls open the door.

'Well, you are a clever boy aren't you?' says the woman on the other side.

* * *

><p>Lestrade is bent over a mountain of paperwork when the call comes in. He seriously considers ignoring it, sparing a disgruntled glance towards his mobile as he fills in the seemingly endless boxes. Whoever it is can wait. He's busy; he's got <em>work<em> to do...

Sighing loudly, he throws the pen down and grabs for the phone without looking. At least it would be a break in the monotony, he thinks, with a crisp 'Lestrade' as he presses the answer button. There is no reply – just a sort of rustling, and he presses it harder to his ear. 'Hello?'

Still nothing; he pulls it away to glance at the caller ID. John Watson. Well, for all he keeps a blog, Lestrade has seen John type. The doctor is hardly the most tech savvy person in the world. He probably left his phone unlocked in his pocket and dialled accidentally –

'– _Gun down, doctor_ – '

Lestrade's grip on the phone tightens and his attention is immediately held completely by the unfamiliar voice coming through it. He waves a hand at the office window to get someone's attention, not looking up. He's too focused on listening to the call to dare shouting out in case he misses something –

'– _Hired Barney Stockdale_ – '

Sherlock's voice this time, and then more muffled rustling. Come _on_, why is no one paying him any attention? He waves again, standing up and pointing frantically at the mobile. _Someone, anyone, track the damn call_ – what on Earth are they doing _now_? Gun – Stockdale – where has he heard that name before? And _gun_ and John and Sherlock and _come on_!

'– _Not going to ask again_ – '

'– _Wouldn't dare_ – '

Damn him, _damn him_, when will that idiot learn not to provoke presumably violent criminals? Lestrade's heart is hammering as people hurry at last into his office, gesturing for him to keep up the call as long as possible. They're setting up some machine or other he doesn't care to glance at more than once. For God's _sake_, he can barely hear over the rustling and the pounding in his ears. They're _civilians_ for crying out loud. What are they thinking pulling stupid stunts like this?

'– _All this has been _for– '

'– _Coward_ – '

'– _Gun down_..._gun _down_, doctor _–'

A loud rustle, a thud far too ominous for the gentleness of it and an odd scraping sound –

'– _Now the phone...not stupid...throw it down_ – '

Movement, fabric shifting – silence and Lestrade is practically crushing the phone and – _and a gunshot_.

'John? Sherlock!' Lestrade shouts into the phone desperately. He springs to his feet and looks around wildly as if his surroundings might give some clue as to what's going on, '_John_!'

There is no answer. The line has gone dead.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.**

**AN: Wow, we're actually on the second-to-last chapter! I've been working on this story for well over a year now; it's strange to finally be finishing it. To everyone who has given feedback/stuck with it, thanks a million, especially as I hadn't really written anything like it before so I was quite unsure how it was going to turn out.**

'Well, you are a clever boy aren't you?' John and the speaker both raise their guns at the exact same moment, both braced to fire. One wears an expression of solid determination and the other, haughty amusement. John takes an automatic step back as she presses forward into the room, a smile curling across her face. Her features have lost all their frailty, so that the woman before them is almost completely unrecognisable as the one who answered the door.

John's heart hammers against his ribs. Sherlock's expression is blank. The woman's is alight with success as her gaze flickers towards the detective. Without thinking, John takes one hand from the gun and plunges it into his pocket. His thumb flies blindly over the buttons of his mobile – _dial someone, dial anyone_ –

Her eyes are back on him, and she shakes her head as though disappointed.

'Put the gun down, doctor,' she instructs. Her tone is exasperated more than demanding. Sherlock is frozen in place, watching with hawk-like intensity for the slightest weakness. His eyes are darting from her face to the gun, to John. John's hand; in his pocket – his phone – distract her, don't let her see; keep her attention away from John. He has to keep her attention away from John –

'You hired Barney Stockdale,' he says coolly. She barely glances at him.

'I'm not going to ask again,' she tells John, who doesn't move. Part of Sherlock screams that the gun is really their only advantage here. The other part is silently begging John to stop being so stupidly stubborn and just put it down before he gets himself killed. Before _Sherlock_ gets him killed – but he resists both. It takes a greater effort than he cares to admit to push the thoughts to the back of his mind. He forces himself not to think about that _gun_ and _John_ and the dream –

'You wouldn't dare,' Sherlock admonishes. Even he is surprised by how calm his voice comes out. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind pieces are sliding neatly together and in the midst of it a name rings out. Of _course_...

'You think so?' But her voice is less certain than before.

'You would have done it already,' Sherlock replies. John desperately hopes he's managed to connect to someone who has picked up by now. He's trying to figure out if he can shoot fast enough, accurately enough to do it now; just do it now, before she has a chance to do anything more.

'Put. The gun down. Now. Put the gun _down_, doctor!' Something almost like panic flashes in her eyes as she jabs her own weapon for emphasis. 'I won't hesitate to shoot you, you know – what do think all this has been _for_?'

'You're a coward,' Sherlock accuses. John's chest surges with frustration. Why, why _now_ does he _still_ have to aggravate everyone he meets? Why can't he just _once_ –

The woman shrugs carelessly and swings the gun around to face Sherlock. John's heart clenches sickeningly and his grip relaxes immediately.

'Do it,' she commands, 'or would you rather test who's the faster shot?'

Sherlock looks at John, imploring him not to do as he's been told, trying to reason with the irrational relief that washes over him when the barrel of her gun faces him instead. _They_ have the advantage, if Sherlock just has a chance to put it to use. But John's face tells Sherlock, and the woman, everything they need to know. John crouches slowly, never once taking his eyes off the face of the stupid, brilliant man before him, and places the gun on the floor.

'Push it over here.'

He does, and she kicks it back into the room behind her. John swallows as her trigger finger twitches, automatically lurching slightly to protect Sherlock, but she simply smirks and nods at his pocket.

'And now the phone, if you please. I'm not stupid. I'm sure whoever you're calling has been very entertained by this but really now – throw it down on the floor.'

John hesitates. Bile rises in his throat at the sight of Sherlock frozen where he stands with a gun pointing directly at his heart; John weapon-less – though his hand remains completely steady. He's breathing heavily, looking anywhere for an escape, an excuse to keep the call for a moment longer. Any time at all that will give whoever he's managed to dial – Mycroft, hopefully, or Lestrade – a chance to find them. Just one more second...

'How do I know you won't shoot us anyway?' he asks, playing for time.

'You don't. But do you really want to risk it?'

With a glance of desperate apology to Sherlock, John, moving as slowly as he can, pulls the phone from his pocket and tosses it to the floor. Quicker than he can blink the woman switches targets, buries a bullet in the carpet and shatters the phone to thousands of pieces before turning back to Sherlock. It all happens too fast for either to react on her momentary distraction.

'I want to know what you know,' she demands. Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

'That would take an awfully long time to tell,' he replies sardonically.

'I need to know what you've worked out, so I know how much the police have discovered,' she states, as though this will encourage him to tell her.

'I wouldn't assume those two are necessarily the same amount,' Sherlock replies, while John curses him under his breath. Can't he just swallow his pride for once? Tell the damn woman that whatever he's worked out the police already know? Does he _have_ to show off, even now?

'So much the worse for you. I really don't care which one of you I shoot first,' she tells him sternly. 'And I frankly don't give a damn whether I kill you before you tell me or not, or how fast you die, so don't be under any false illusions about procrastinating to save your skins. It would be useful to know what you know and what you have told your Scotland Yard friends, but by no means essential.'

'If you actually planned on killing us, you would already have done it,' says Sherlock.

'Oh for goodness sake...' she mutters impatiently, 'you are incredibly tiresome, Sherlock Holmes. What on Earth do you think the last few weeks have been if not a plan to kill you?'

'Oh I've no doubt you want me _dead_,' Sherlock assures her, in a tone that is almost placating. 'I just doubt your ability to actually _kill_ me. For all your sons' crimes, you've never in fact committed murder yourself, have you Isadora?'

John feels a surge of anger. Sherlock _knew_, he knew all this time; the stupid, arrogant, foolish, reckless _idiot_, he _knew_ –

'Oh very good. And how long have you known that?'

'Since approximately ten seconds before opening that door. You really want to be more careful about where you keep your family photographs,' Sherlock explains, with a pointed glance towards the box he was rifling through – seconds? – minutes? – hours? – before. John follows his gaze automatically. The woman – Isadora, John reminds himself with a rush of irritation at Sherlock – keeps her eyes on her target, though they flicker revealingly. John struggles to arrange his expression into the kind of bored indifference Sherlock's shows.

'Do go on,' Isadora prompts, twitching the gun as though to remind them of its presence.

'I must admit; I am impressed,' Sherlock continues coolly. 'One false identity must have been hard enough for you to keep track of, but two? Although fully advisable, I'm sure. Barney Stockdale and Howard Epps are definitely less conspicuous names than Remington and Andreas Klein. Especially given your late husband's notoriety – in certain circles, of course. What did you do, downsize the organisation after he died, or are you just more careful than he was?'

Isadora doesn't reply, but her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. John's fists are clenched by his sides and he's torn between asking what in the world they are talking about or playing along and pretending he too has known all the time. Clearly Sherlock knows a lot more than he has let on, and John fully intends to kill him if they get out of this alive. Deciding it would be more dangerous to break the spell Sherlock is weaving on their attacker, he remains silent.

'Well if you're going to shoot us, shoot us,' Sherlock says impatiently, waving a hand to egg her on.

'What makes you think I won't?' Isadora challenges. Sherlock rolls his eyes as though thoroughly bored by the whole situation. In reality a dozen different escape plans are running uncompleted through his mind and he isn't half as confident as he is deliberately making out. She won't shoot in cold blood, he knows that. He's – well he's _almost_ sure of that, but how much else has he managed to get wrong on this case? But if either he or John move too suddenly…If he lunges to try and knock the gun from her hand – so simple from this angle, so _easy_ – if she panics...

John is only half listening to the exchange. His ears are straining to pick up the sound of approaching car; a siren in the distance, a shout, anything Please, _please _let his call have got through...

'You have never killed a person in your life. You've dabbled in petty crime for years but you've left all the bigger fish, so to speak, to Moriarty. You've trusted his presence to cover for you, which it has. You might even have taken pay from him on occasion. And then Howard Epps – or rather, Andreas Klein – outpaced your reach. And you covered for him. Again and again. You're a mother, what else could you do?'

Sherlock's voice is almost sympathetic. Isadora's mask is crumbling but if anything the desperation that's beneath it looks even more dangerous. Sherlock starts to speak more quickly, as though hoping to keep her so focused on his words that she forgets the weapon in her hands. 'And then I came along and ruined it all, didn't I? I was catching up with him. You couldn't let that happen. So you got Barney – Remington – to do something. Cover it up. Silence me. Anything to protect your son, am I right? No matter what his crimes were. Remington put out the word that there was a price on my head. And there was no shortage of takers – that's why the attempts were so clumsy and mismatched. That's why it was so disconnected, because it wasn't _one person_, it was as many as cared to try it. How much were you offering?' He sounds genuinely interested, but shrugs as though it is of no importance when she doesn't reply. 'You thought the crash had worked. You figured even if I wasn't dead then as long as I was out of the way it would do and everyone brushed it off as an accident. But then I woke up, and Remington had to come and check if it was true, didn't he? Impressive disguise, by the way. Not quite impressive enough, but all the same.'

'Shut up,' Isadora commands shakily.

'I thought you wanted me to talk?'

'Sherlock –' John begins.

'It doesn't matter what you know anyway –'

'Doesn't it?'

'I'm still going to shoot you –'

'No you aren't. Your sons are murderers – yes, I know Remington was the one who killed the girl. Because it would be so much easier to cover up the death of a stranger, wouldn't it? He had no motive to kill her, and anyway the explosion was meant to destroy any evidence. Was that a deliberate attempt to steer us in Moriarty's direction? We should have known better of course, he'd never repeat himself like that. And Remington just couldn't resist showing off could he? Throwing it in my face that I hadn't noticed him at the hospital? Then Steve Dixie was the one who rigged the bomb and all he managed to do was collapse the building and you started to really panic then. But you still aren't a killer, not really –'

'Shut up, shut _up_!'

'Sherlock, what are you –?'

'You're a coward. We're both here; we're both defenceless –'

'I'll shoot, I _will_ shoot –'

'Of course you won't. Not even to protect your sons. You can't, or you'd have done it months ago and none of this would have happened. You were too careful for your own good or you would at least have hired a decent assassin but oh no, we had to think it was Moriarty. And that meant everyone _else_ had to as well. What better way than to just spread whispers and let fear do the rest? You couldn't be connected with it so it had to come on the grapevine –'

'SHUT UP!' She wheels around before either of them can react, waving the gun frantically as her face crumples into lines of terrified desperation. Her wild eyes flicker between them, 'you don't know, you've no idea –! Don't you dare, don't you _dare_ – you can't; I can't let you, you _CAN'T!' _

The gunshot and her scream merge into one sound.

Sherlock lurches forward, grabbing her wrist and squeezing, forcing it down until she releases the gun. It falls with a clatter to the floor as he twists her arms behind her back and secures them there with a plastic tie from his pocket. He pulls it so tightly it threatens to cut into her skin before he grabs for the abandoned gun and passes it automatically back to John, whose hand is slippery when he takes it –

He freezes in horror and looks around.

'John –'

'It's nothing,' John gasps, 'honestly, Sherlock, I'm fine –' but Sherlock has already turned his back on Isadora and is leading John to the threadbare sofa. There is panic in his face at the sight of the blood, which John dismisses even as he grimaces in pain. 'Just my leg,' he manages, gritting his teeth, 'just grazed it, that's all...'

Sherlock is inspecting the wound and sags with relief when he sees that John's words are true; the bullet only skimmed his thigh.

'It wasn't supposed to be you,' he says numbly, stripping off his scarf and pressing it to the gash to stem the flow of blood. He gives a half glance to Isadora, but she is sitting some feet away on the floor. She is staring at John as though she can't believe what she's seeing, blinking stupidly and shaking her head. Her mouth moves soundlessly around the words _I didn't, I didn't – no choice...I didn't..._but all the venom has gone from her features. She looks quite lost, and Sherlock ignores her. 'I didn't mean for –' he continues.

'What do you mean _supposed to be_?' John demands, pushing Sherlock's hands away roughly and tying the scarf like a bandage around his own leg. He glares furiously at Sherlock's frowning face.

'Forget it,' Sherlock mutters. He is abnormally acquiescent as he leans back and lets John tend to his own injury, holding himself stiff and uncertainly. 'I'll call Lestrade.' He digs his mobile from his pocket as he stands up, not sure if the distance he puts between himself and John is deliberate or not.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later John is sitting in the back of an ambulance while Lestrade, who was already halfway there, bundles Isadora Klein unresisting into the back of a police car. Sherlock brushes off the attempts of any of the police to question him. He allows a paramedic to drape an orange blanket around his shoulders only because it means they will let him stay in the ambulance with John.<p>

'What did you mean?' John asks suddenly, clenching his fist against the pain as a paramedic cleans his leg wound.

'What?' Sherlock looks up, and John repeats the question tightly.

'When you said it _wasn't supposed to be me_. What did you mean?'

'What do you think I meant?' Sherlock snaps automatically, already feeling a prickling shame for his miscalculation and carefully avoiding looking either directly into John's eyes or at his wound.

'I _think_,' John begins, and he isn't shouting but his voice is as dangerous as it ever gets, 'that you knew exactly what sort of danger we were getting into from the start and you deliberately provoked her into firing. Except you were planning on being the one who got hit, am I right?'

'Your deductions, as usual, are completely misplaced,' Sherlock replies sharply, though with less conviction than he would have liked.

'Enlighten me then,' John tells him. 'What the _Hell_ just happened there? And why didn't you tell me any of that before we went in? And what the _fuck_ were you doing going at all if you knew –'

'First of all, you're giving me far too much credit for prior knowledge,' Sherlock interrupts. 'You knew everything I did when we arrived. I only worked the rest out _after_ we'd gone in and I saw the picture. I pointed it out to Lestrade; he's probably taken it as evidence if you want to see it yourself.'

John rallies quickly after the rebuke, 'Well once you'd worked it out what were you doing throwing it in her face? What was all that if not an attempt to goad her into firing? And why the Hell did you want her to –?'

'I didn't intend her to fire!' Sherlock exclaims furiously, lurching to his feet and dropping the blanket. John stands as well, ignoring the stab of pain that rockets up his leg and glaring at Sherlock, barely noticing the protests of the attending paramedic. 'Obviously I made a mistake!'

'You what?' John asks without thinking, the sudden catch in Sherlock's voice throwing him off guard.

'I said I made a _mistake_. I was _wrong_, John, and it got you shot. Are you happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?' Sherlock's voice is raised almost to a shout and he strides several paces away and back again in agitation. 'I knew she wasn't a killer and I knew she was already at her wits' end trying to protect her sons, so I played to that desperation. I thought if I could bring her to the point where she either _had_ to fire or had to concede that she wouldn't be able to then she would give up. If _she_ realised she wasn't a murderer then she would collapse. Her whole plan would go down the drain and she would be defenceless. But I had to get her to the point where her need to fire directly came against the fact that she knew very well that she couldn't. And if she did shoot,' he pauses, his voice lowering again, 'the gun was pointing at me. I calculated that, if she fired at all, it would most likely be a non-fatal shot anyway and it was directed at _me_. You weren't supposed to be the one who got hit.'

'Is that supposed to make me feel _better_?' John demands. He reluctantly allows himself to be tugged back down by the irate paramedic, trembling with fury. 'Is it supposed to make me feel _better_ that your entire escape plan hinged on getting yourself bloody well _shot_? That it would _most likely_ be non-fatal? Do you actually have a single iota of self-preservation in you? How many times are you going to do this sort of thing? How many times do I have to watch you try and get yourself killed before you either actually succeed or accept that you're wrong? _How many times_, Sherlock?'

'You're being ridiculous,' Sherlock admonishes. 'It was –'

'The most stupid, mindless thing you've ever done? A suicide mission? Reckless? Thoughtless?'

'A mistake,' Sherlock concedes quietly. He doesn't understand John's anger. What did John expect? He was right, wasn't he? At least about the fact that Isadora was never a killer; hadn't she sunk to the floor in defeat just seeing what she had done? Isn't she even now being driven away in a police car? Won't her organisation be crumbling away as they speak? Haven't they _won_?

'That's not the point,' John says, and Sherlock has the distinct feeling John is answering his thoughts rather than his words.

'I'm sorry,' says Sherlock honestly, but John shakes his head tiredly.

'You're sorry I was shot –'

'Of course I am –'

'Not that you tried your damnedest to take the bullet yourself. What if you had been wrong?'

'I _was_ –'

'Even more wrong,'

'There aren't degrees of wrongness John. I was either correct or I was incorrect.'

'What if she had killed you?' John presses, trying not to let those images play in his mind. The truth is that beneath his anger there is only pounding relief that it _was_ him and not Sherlock, and he makes no effort to hide this from his expression.

'She wouldn't have.'

'Do you know that? Are you _sure_? What if she had, Sherlock?' He pauses, and waits very deliberately for Sherlock to meet his eyes, 'where would that have left me?' he asks softly.

'I'm sorry,' Sherlock repeats, and holds John's gaze for several long seconds before the doctor replies.

'You'd better be,' he says firmly.


	14. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: Erm…my apologies for what is essentially eleven pages of utterly pointless (and possibly OOC) fluff. :/ Consider it a celebration of eighteen months of sometimes quite challenging (though enjoyable!) work, which could not have been completed without my beta, prettybirdy979. Thanks one last time to everyone who has left feedback; I hope you enjoy the last chapter!**

_27__th__ December_

'This is getting to be quite a habit,' says Sherlock as John stirs to wakefulness the next morning. John blinks against the light and twists his head to squint up at the detective's face.

'What is?' he asks blearily. He makes as if to push himself up, feels the slight pressure of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder – not pressing, just lying there – and settles gratefully back down again. The events of yesterday are something of a blur in his memory. They come back to him slowly as he surfaces from a deep sleep. He doesn't try to hurry them; quite the opposite, as his eyes begin to slide closed again before Sherlock has even answered.

'You using my ribcage as a pillow,' Sherlock clarifies. There is a hint of amusement in his voice as John's eyes snap open again at the sound. The only reason Sherlock is even _in_ bed is because he'd wanted to avoid another outburst from John, this time regarding his forced insomnia. There is still the remainder of Isadora Klein's organisation to round up, her sons included, after all. But he has to admit that the warm weight of John's head on his chest is not an unwelcome one. He finds himself smiling at John's voice, still thick with sleep.

'Three times counts as a habit?' John protests feebly, and feels Sherlock shrug beneath him.

'I don't know,' Sherlock replies. John can hear the smirk, 'We'll need more data; see if the trend continues.' John smiles and shakes his head against Sherlock's bare chest,

'You are impossible,' he mutters. Sherlock scoffs,

'Merely improbable,' he corrects, and John shoves him reproachfully.

'Well at least this time it was in a bed rather than on the sofa,' says John sleepily. 'Actually, come to think of it, that's probably the first full-night's rest I've had in nearly two months.'

'Did you know you talk in your sleep?' Sherlock asks abruptly, hardly aware of the fact that his fingers are tracing light circles across John's shoulder. He is peering at the top of John's head as though trying to break through and literally see his thoughts played out before him.

'What?'

'You talk in your sleep,' Sherlock repeats. 'Did you know?' This is another fact about John he has been careful to file away in his mind, and one he found strangely endearing at the time. It's strange that such dull occurrences can be of such interest merely by being linked to John. It's John's turn to shrug.

'Did I say anything interesting?'

'Something about elephants and daffodils,' Sherlock tells him. John can't tell if he's being serious or not. 'What on Earth were you dreaming about?'

'I really don't remember, can't you deduce it?' John teases, tilting his head upwards again to see Sherlock's face. 'At least it wasn't bloody –' he breaks off, forcing away the pressing images from his recent dreams. 'Well, it wasn't what it has been.'

'And what has it been?'

'Oh come on; I assume you can figure out that much at least,' John challenges, nonplussed. Can Sherlock _really_ not know?

'Even since I woke up?' John lifts his head right off Sherlock's chest this time, and half sits up to stare at Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock's hand drops away from his shoulder, and there's a cold patch where he instinctively misses the contact. Sherlock is frowning.

'Are you being serious?' John asks.

'What on Earth do I have to joke about?'

'After what you did yesterday; after everything I've told you about being worried that you're going to get yourself killed, you're really asking me this? Sherlock we _kissed_, we actually kissed and…I suddenly had _everything_ and then the car…You were in the hospital for _weeks_. I had nothing to think about but the fact that the instant I'd been given everything it had been taken away again. I thought you were going to _die_, Sherlock. Do you really think that just goes away?'

Sherlock's frown doesn't budge. 'But I didn't die,' he protests, 'and we've been in life threatening situations before.'

'I know.' John sighs and drags a hand over his face. Sherlock looks genuinely confused, an expression John can't quite manage to take completely seriously. It just doesn't belong on Sherlock's face. 'But it was – you've never actually come that close before. Have you any idea how much of a miracle it is that you came out of that unharmed?'

'Miracles don't exist –'

'Nevertheless,' John interrupts, holding up a hand for silence. He leaves it there for a moment, and then brings it down to rest over Sherlock's heart, continuing quietly. 'There's always been something I could do in the past anyway. It's always been part of some case or other. I _know_ this was, but I didn't know that at the time, did I? It was completely out of the blue. I was stuck in limbo for six weeks waiting for you to wake up. And then you had to go and announce that it wasn't an accident –'

'Which it wasn't –'

'_Not the point_. You announced that and we were off again. Why do you think I tried to stop over Christmas? I just needed a _break_. Even then all I could think about was what if you hadn't woken up, or what if you'd been killed outright in the crash? And it was worse because by that point I'd found out just what I'd be missing.'

Sherlock raises one eyebrow quizzically.

'Well,' John says in mock thought, 'apart from anything else, you happen to be a damn good kisser. I wasn't in any rush to let _that_ talent go unpractised.' He allows Sherlock to pull him down into a kiss now, and revels in the warmth of his tongue and the softness of his lips, and his hands, which slide down John's back and make his spine tingle. For several moments he just basks in Sherlock's presence, as he very thoroughly proves John's latest statement. 'And if you remember,' John continues a little breathlessly as he pulls away, 'I didn't even really know where we stood when you woke up. I didn't even know what was going to happen or whether you regretted it –'

'I don't.'

'Or whether you would change your mind –'

'I won't.'

'We never talked about it, really. We still haven't.'

Sherlock grimaces pointedly. 'You aren't going to insist we do _now_, are you?' he asks, distaste evident in his voice.

'God no,' replies John. 'I was just making a point.'

More than once, Sherlock has found himself doubting his own decisions since meeting John. Was it _really_ a good idea to have a flatmate? A colleague was useful, but was he really _necessary_? Wouldn't Sherlock be far better off on his own, as he has always insisted on being?

As for letting John pull him – albeit kicking and screaming – into this messy tangle of _feelings_, as colleagues became friends almost without him knowing and certainly without his consent…

And then – he balks at the term _lovers_, it sounds ridiculous even in his head. It's superficial, somehow; not a word he has ever wanted to apply in connection with himself. Certainly nothing close to the reluctant, the inexplicable bond that has formed between himself and John – _his_ John...

He'd never even considered this sort of thing before. It wasn't important. It was irrelevant. It got in the way. It almost frightens him how fast and how uncontrollably things have changed. Yet at the same time he knows he is somehow far stronger now, with John, than he ever was before. He would once have dismissed it as impossible. Why would he ever want to get caught up in that sort of emotional nonsense? A year ago had somebody described his current situation to him, he would have said they were spending too much time around Anderson. But John is – well, John.

And as John laughs and leans down again, as he kisses his way across Sherlock's jaw and as Sherlock finds himself leaning into the touch and unable to imagine a life _without_ John in it anymore…He knows he has made the right decisions, after all.

* * *

><p><em>28<em>_th__ December_

Anderson is staring again. He spent most of yesterday staring, when John and Sherlock arrived to give their statements, and John can't decide if he is amused or irritated that he is still doing it.

'…and when you've done that I need the results of the tests emailed to me…' Sherlock is telling an indignant Lestrade, apparently oblivious to Anderson's scrutiny. John resists the sudden childish urge to stick his tongue out at him.

Neither John nor Sherlock have mentioned their relationship to anyone, and while John trusts Lestrade to have been discreet, Anderson has evidently noticed _something_. John has long since abandoned concerns for what anyone might have to say, the likes of Anderson least of all, but the attention is beginning to make him uncomfortable.

'What do you think, John?'

'Hmm – what?' John jumps guiltily at being addressed, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

'Carlos Dawson,' Sherlock waves a page of lab results in from of his face, 'he was an experienced user, do you think these levels were enough for an overdose?' Tearing his thoughts away from Anderson, John chews his lip in concentration,

'Possibly,' he replies slowly, 'but to be honest I doubt it.'

'Excellent!' Sherlock exclaims, spinning back to face Lestrade. 'And what about the girlfriend?' he demands.

'Missing since Christmas Eve,' Lestrade replies; Sherlock beams.

'Can you keep it quiet for another day?'

'If you've got a theory –' Lestrade begins testily,

'What? No, nothing yet; not really. But if I can just…one day, no leaks, alright?'

'I know how to do my job –'

Sherlock scoffs and opens his mouth to say something scathing. Before he manages to speak John very purposefully, and very obviously, stands on his foot. Lestrade smirks as Sherlock abruptly closes his mouth and John accepts the file from the DI gratefully, ignoring Sherlock's venomous glare.

'We'll get back to you,' John promises. Lestrade nods and glances sympathetically back at Sherlock, who has turned to stride away without waiting for John.

'Good luck,' he says with the air of speaking to a man about to enter a lion's den. John laughs and thanks him, before hurrying after Sherlock. Anderson watches him go.

'_Have_ you got a theory?' John asks as soon as he has caught up with his flatmate,

'Obviously,' Sherlock replies shortly.

'And you wouldn't tell him because…?' Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn't reply. 'Of course,' John finishes for him, slightly exasperated, 'that would just be far too easy for the rest of us wouldn't it?'

'I see no reason to spoon feed him, he has all the information I have,' Sherlock defends calmly. 'If he fails to reason from his observations it's hardly my fault is it?'

Sherlock is walking quickly and seems completely unaware of Anderson's eyes still fixed on their retreating backs. At least until, without a pause in the conversation, he spares a pointed glance over his shoulder and snakes his arm across John's back to place his hand quite deliberately on John's backside.

Anderson's mouth drops open. Sherlock smirks.

* * *

><p><em>29<em>_th__ December_

When John sees the toes in the fridge, he barely bats an eyelid. He's so used to coming across Sherlock's experiments now that half the time he doesn't even notice. Even when he finds that the milk has run out because Sherlock used the last of it to soak said toes in, it only causes a prickling irritation that he is quickly over. He can always have his tea black, he supposes.

But when he discovers that the teabags have been sacrificed to a similar cause, he has had enough. Sherlock has been insufferable all day; his theory of yesterday fell flat, and neither of them slept last night. Sherlock spent his time alternately immersed in the files of the Isadora Klein case and scraping noisily on the violin. This in turn meant each time John finally managed to close his eyes he was woken again by the infernal sound which Sherlock refused to stop.

This is the final straw.

'One cupboard, Sherlock!' he shouts, slamming the cupboard door and marching through to the living room to find Sherlock sprawled on the floor inspecting something on the carpet with his magnifying glass. He glances up, looking distracted.

'What?'

'One cupboard! One place in the whole bloody flat that I _told_ you not to experiment on. Nothing in that cupboard to be touched, or used, or looked at or smelled or _anything_ by you. You _promised_, you said –'

'What on Earth are you talking about?'

'The teabags!' John explodes, '_my_ teabags, the ones that are for _me_ only so if nothing else I can be guaranteed a bloody drink if I want one!'

'You're overreacting –'

'No I am damn well not overreacting! You've taken over everything else in there; can't I have one little space that's _mine_? Eyeballs in the microwave, heads in the fridge –'

'There was only one head –'

'Skulls on the mantelpiece –'

'The tree, actually, and technically again –'

'_Toes in the milk_! And now my tea! What the Hell _is_ that stuff in there anyway? Actually no, you know what, I don't want to know. I don't care what it is or what you want them for, you _don't_ touch things in that cupboard! We had a deal!'

'I needed them!' Sherlock counters, standing up, 'I'm conducting a very important investigation –'

'I _don't care_!' John yells – this is it, this really is the absolute limit. And Sherlock doesn't even look sorry. He looks practically _amused_ by John's outburst and just _once_ wouldn't he like to have a simple drink without worrying if it might poison him?

'If you're that desperate for teabags go and buy some!' Sherlock shouts, 'then perhaps I can conduct my work with a little peace!'

He seems to realise he has made a mistake as soon as he has spoken, and John literally hears him clap his mouth shut.

'_I'm_ interrupting _your_ peace? I haven't spoken for three hours in case I disturbed you! You were on that violin all night last night –'

'John –'

'So I barely got five minutes sleep, all I want is one cup of tea and that's too bloody well much to ask is it? In your way, am I?'

'John, I –'

'Forget it,' John hisses, 'I'm going out. I'll leave you in _peace_.'

He slams the door behind him, leaving Sherlock standing in the centre of the room looking uncharacteristically lost.

John stamps down the stairs as noisily as possible and storms out onto the street. Only once the door has swung shut behind him does he remember he has no coat with him, but he'll be damned if he's going back in there for it.

Within ten minutes he is freezing cold and shivering. His fingers have gone numb despite his hands being balled into fists and stuffed under his armpits for warmth. He walks quickly, head down and fuming. How dare Sherlock? _John_ disturbing the peace? _John_ being unreasonable? Who's the one using the kitchen to store semi-decomposed body parts? Who's the one making such a racket it's impossible to sleep?

Okay, perhaps running out of teabags doesn't _quite_ merit this reaction, but _still_. It's the principle of the thing. Wouldn't he just love to be able to go into the kitchen and not have to be afraid of what he'll find there?

He has a sudden image of the kitchen as empty and untouched as it was just a few weeks ago; experiments conspicuously absent or abandoned, everything in its proper place and uncontaminated. He remembers how much, then, he had longed for _this_. He HHfeels a pang of guilt which goes some way to cooling his anger.

No; no, he's determined to stay annoyed about this. He's not letting this one go.

X

Sherlock realises after almost a minute that he hasn't moved a muscle since John left and orders himself to do something rather than standing here staring aimlessly at the door. To his surprise, he finds himself stepping towards the kitchen.

John is being ridiculous. He knows Sherlock's experiments are important, and how expensive are a few teabags? Is it so difficult for him to just go and buy himself some more? How is Sherlock supposed to _think_ with John clattering around so clumsily while he is attempting very delicate and vital investigations? Really, John is being stupid. Sherlock is glad he's gone out; it gives him some quiet for once.

So why can't he think _now_? Why is John's absence so much more distracting than his presence? Why is the echoing silence infinitely more disturbing than John clattering about with the kettle while he tries to concentrate? Inexplicably he thinks of Pluto. Not a planet, he remembers, though why the fact hasn't been deleted by now he can't imagine. He thinks of the focusing effect of John's voice while he was trapped in that empty dream.

He's being stupid. John is overreacting; he'll realise that soon enough and be back in an hour at most.

Probably sooner, Sherlock amends, noticing John's coat slung over the back of a chair and feeling something uncomfortably close to concern. How can he possibly be worried for John _now_? He's angry with him. He can't be worried and angry at the same time.

Before he has really realised what he is doing, Sherlock has a cloth in his hand and is staring around the kitchen wondering where to start.

Well, what of it? He demands of himself irritably. The kitchen needs a clean and clearly John isn't going to do it if he's going to be so childish about everything. This mess is going to start to interfere with his experiments soon.

It has nothing to do with John. Really.

X

Half an hour later John returns silently with a carton of milk, a box of teabags and a _no entry_ sign which he hangs on the cupboard door handle without a word. Neither of them mentions the argument, but John notices that the worktops are suspiciously clean. When Sherlock reaches almost tentatively for his violin, John nods his permission with a smile. Sherlock plays beautifully and John falls asleep to the strains of an unfamiliar but breath-taking melody Sherlock will never admit to having composed himself.

* * *

><p><em>30<em>_th__ December_

John is ignoring Sherlock. In the forty five minutes since his email to Lestrade, he has become more and more sulky each time he has pressed the refresh button to find no new reply. While neither of them are keen to repeat yesterday's experience, John knows that Sherlock's patience in waning fast. The lack of any new leads for several days is wearing on them both. John deliberately concentrates instead on the half built tower of cards in front of him.

'Oh, how long does it take to check one little fact?' Sherlock huffs as yet another attempt reveals nothing.

'I'm sure he's doing his best,' John assures him in a placatory tone, not looking up from his task.

'Yes; that's my point,' Sherlock sneers. John sighs.

'Maybe he's busy,' he replies reasonably.

'This is _important_,' Sherlock complains. He folds his arms across his chest and sinks further down into his chair, scowling. 'I can't move anywhere in this case until he gets back to me. How hard can it be to look up one single date? I mean he does _realise_ that this is in order to catch a murderer, right? That has actually registered with him?'

'You just don't like not being the centre of attention,' John scolds lightly, keeping his voice carefully free of any real annoyance. In actual fact, Sherlock's current pose makes him look less like an angered genius and more like a sulky child, which John can't help but find somewhat endearing. Any irritation that might threaten to surface is soon chased away by the memory of the clean kitchen and the stunning violin performance. Not to mention the look of absolute relief on Sherlock's face when John came back yesterday. He can't _really_ have thought John was actually leaving, can he? _Leaving-_leaving? The thought had never even crossed John's mind. He finds himself simultaneously feeling slightly guilty and somewhat mollified at the thought that he had made his point quite so effectively.

'How does he expect me to solve the case without information?' Sherlock rants, ignoring John's comment. 'Even I can't just pull solutions out of thin air – and I would have thought you'd be much keener to catch the man who tried to kill us both.'

'I am,' John says earnestly, 'but sitting around complaining is not going to help matters is it? Try this if you're so bored.' He roots around for a moment in a drawer, before retrieving a second deck of slightly battered looking cards and tossing them to Sherlock. Sherlock rolls his eyes and throws them back – right into the centre of John's tower, which collapses. John clenches and unclenches his fist slowly, taking a deep breath.

'Do you have to act like a two year old every time you don't get your own way?'

Sherlock doesn't reply, and John goes back to rebuilding his tower for several minutes before Sherlock moves over and flops suddenly into the chair on the other side of the table. John glances up, but neither of them speaks for a while.

'Are you going to be doing that all day?' Sherlock asks eventually, his tone disbelieving as he watches John start the second level of what must be his sixth attempt of building a full tower. John glances up again with an odd look on his face.

'I steady my nerves, that is all,' he replies, in a positively horrendous attempt at a Belgian accent. Sherlock raises his eyebrows, resisting the smile that tries to work its way onto his face.

'Sorry to disappoint, but I'm afraid I think the position of Hastings is rather more suited to you, John.'

John's hands freeze in the act of putting another two cards on, and he stares at Sherlock.

'What?' Sherlock asks defensively.

'Did you just…understand a reference?'

'It's Hercule Poirot, John, of course I understood it,' Sherlock responds in his "_isn't it obvious_?" tone. John opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again and shakes his head.

'Of course _that_ would be the one thing you'd not delete,' he says. Sherlock leans forward and plucks a pair of cards from the pile beside John, popping them neatly on top of John's structure so far. 'Why don't you build your own?' John asks, pushing the spare deck towards him again. 'Surely that's more of a challenge for you?'

'I hardly think it counts as a _challenge_. And anyway, why would I want to start on my own when I have a perfectly good set of foundations right in front of me?'

* * *

><p><em>31<em>_st__ December_

John and Sherlock burst through the door of 221b in fits of breathless laughter and collapse against the wall gasping for air.

'Déjà – vu –' John says between giggles, leaning forward with his hands on his knees and struggling to get his breath back, 'thank – God for Lestrade's – timing, right?'

'I think you were managing quite well on your own,' Sherlock replies fairly, laughter still on his face but in a much steadier voice than John has managed yet. 'I don't think he expected you to move that quickly,'

'No,' agrees John, 'that was – sort of the point of the whole – faked injury thing…sorry about that by the way.'

Sherlock grimaces at the memory and waves a hand dismissively, straightening up and adjusting his coat. John refrains from reminding him that it was something of a taste of his own medicine anyway.

'_Christ _my hands are cold!' he exclaims instead, taking them off his knees suddenly and waving them about in an attempt to get the circulation going. 'How are you not _freezing_?'

Sherlock doesn't reply immediately, but swiftly takes both John's hands in his, wrapping his long fingers around the doctor's shorter ones and rubbing his thumbs slowly across John's bare skin.

'_I_ wear gloves,' he says in a low voice.

'You didn't exactly give me much chance to make sure I was dressed properly,' John protests weakly. Sherlock is taking full advantage of his height, towering over John as his lip curls in amusement. His thumbs are still moving over John's knuckles, breath ghosting across John's forehead. 'Oh you know I didn't mean it like that…' John mutters.

'Your nose goes a quite shocking red when you're cold,' Sherlock says, 'I might have to warm that up for you too.' He leans forward and kisses the tip of John's nose, moving his hands up to John's cheeks while John slips his own – now much warmer – hands beneath Sherlock's coat.

'Have you reconsidered my suggestion yet?' John breathes, and Sherlock huffs in disbelief,

'Is now really the time?'

John smiles and pulls away, 'well, fine then…' he says, grinning when Sherlock tugs him back.

'You said _yet_ as though my acquiescence was predetermined.'

'Oh it is,' John replies, 'I can be very persuasive.'

X

In the end, John's persuasion pays off; reasoning that they might even manage to apprehend a criminal or two before midnight – in a crowd that big, who knows? John points out – he drags Sherlock to the rapidly growing throng of people on the Victoria Embankment. It occurs to Sherlock vaguely that John ultimately manages to get his way far too easily far too often, but he does very little to rectify this fact.

The press of people is enormous but somehow not stifling. The air is so thick with careless excitement that even Sherlock seems to be infected with it, and doesn't complain once after they arrive. He points out various deductions as they weave gradually through the horde of tourists and locals alike. Everyone is chattering or laughing or singing, all wrapped in so many layers of clothing it's almost impossible to move.

John, who has remembered his gloves this time but whose right hand is still firmly ensconced in Sherlock's left, scans the people in front of them for another likely target.

'Him?' he has to shout to be heard above all the noise, though no one pays him the slightest attention but Sherlock,

'Journalist,' Sherlock responds loudly and decisively, 'divorced but remarried, two children…suffers from selenophobia.'

John automatically glances upwards and is relieved for the man's sake that the moon is covered by a thick blanket of clouds.

'Them?'

'Been together three…no, four years. Living together with at least one dog; she's planning on proposing tonight.' John smiles despite himself, knowing that Sherlock would deem it stupid to let the affairs of strangers affect his mood but unable not to feel uplifted slightly by the sight of the couple. 'Too bad he's cheating.'

John's mood nose-dives. 'Thanks for that,' he retorts grumpily, 'now you've ruined it.'

'It's hardly my fault! I'm just relaying facts.'

John sighs and scans the crowd for someone else hopefully, forcing the not-so happy couple from his mind in search of a more cheerful object. 'Her?' He points to a girl laughing brightly at something her companion has just said.

'Drama student,' he deduces quickly, 'first time in London, only child…in love with her best friend.'

'_Happy_ things Sherlock!' John complains loudly, 'why don't you leave out the misery for once? Tell me…I don't know, what they got up to last time they were drunk off their heads or something. I don't want to know if he's cheating or she's got an unrequited crush or –'

'I never said it was unrequited.'

'Oh. Good. How can you tell? Hang on no; don't answer that, of course you can tell. I'll take your word for it.'

'So you should,' Sherlock checks his watch, looking smug. 'It's almost midnight,' he shouts over a fresh roar of the crowd as the countdown is announced to be imminent, leaning automatically towards John so the latter can hear him better.

'I'd noticed!' John calls, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze and pressing closer.

'_TEN_!' thousands of people bellow simultaneously, and John raises his voice even further, though by now Sherlock is just reading his lips.

'I've thought of a New Year's resolution for you!' he yells.

'Oh?'

'_SEVEN…SIX!_'

'Three hundred and sixty five days without a near death experience!' Sherlock rolls his eyes, but agrees.

'I'll do my best!'

'_THREE…TWO_!'

'Liar!' John shouts fondly.

'_ONE_!'

John grins into Sherlock's kiss and barely notices the fireworks exploding above them.

'Happy New Year,' he says.


End file.
